Shopping Mission
by Section-Eight
Summary: In which Chloe buys a litre of milk. It's done. Overdone, for great grammar.
1. A Beautiful Morning

**Shopping Mission**

In which Chloe buys a litre of milk.

**Chapter 1: A Beautiful Morning**

The sun peeked through the clouds. Rivers of light poured earthward, splashed through an exquisite four-panel window and pooled on a soft, silk-sheeted bed. A gentle ocean breeze washed through the patio door (left open overnight), around the legs of expensive antique furniture, over the bed, and tickled past a peach-soft cheek.

A young girl with hair the colour of grape-juice stirred from sleep. She rose, stretched, and yawned, once, in a polite, surreptitious manner. She was short, yet powerfully built, with a face like a knife: sharp, hard-edged, and made in China. She had the intense, narrow, and violet eyes of one who had complete and total confidence in herself and her place in the great order of things (or a permanent squint).

Outside, morning bells were ringing. Songbirds saluted the new day. Swinging out of bed, she adjusted her pyjamas (pink with a riot of hedgehogs upon it), and headed out to join them.

She tripped.

Gracefully, she rolled and flipped back to her feet, mildly vexed. She gave a nearby bell-pull three sharp tugs.

The bedroom door immediately swung open. An elderly man, either chronically overdressed or a butler, leaned through, and raised an eyebrow.

"Alphonse?" the girl said, in a quiet voice.

"Yes?" the overdressed butler replied.

"I will take breakfast in three minutes."

He nodded.

"And please see to the floor," she added.

He glanced at it, and then nodded, once. "Sleep well, m'lady?"

She gave no answer; he didn't expect one.

"Ah," he said, remembering something. "A message for you; it arrived this morning." He laid the silver tray bearing the letter on a side table, bowed, and left.

She would read it in the garden, she decided, picking it up.

She stepped over the corpse of the ninja assassin sprawled out on the carpet ("I _knew_ that dream was a little vivid," she thought) and out onto the patio. A curious sparrow landed on her shoulder, and gobbled the seeds she grabbed from a nearby feeder. She wandered through a riot of chrysanthemums and wildflowers, studying the shape, texture, colour, and scent of each in minute detail.

Eventually, she came to a clearing, actually the edge of a steep cliff overlooking the cape. Waves crashed against it, their scent borne to her by the rising winds. She sat on a weather-worn chunk of granite, plucked what appeared to be an unusually sharp letter-opener from her sleeve, and opened the envelope.

"My darling Chole," she read. Her heart leapt just a little, as it always did. Her thoughts drifted back to that strange, distant land she called home, and to the woman who had raised her there. Under her benevolent gaze she had learned the truth about the world of men, and her place in it, of her destiny to save that world from drowning in its own sin as an avenging maiden of darkness, one half of the pair of assassins that made up the legendary masters of death -- Noir.

"Tales of your noble deeds reach me even here, a world away," the letter continued. "You have done so very well, and now you are almost home. You must have been so tired from your long journey when you arrived here…"

"I wouldn't have been," a voice in her head said, "if you'd let me drive."

"…And I hope you are well rested." She nodded. Home was home, of course, but she did like this little safe house. The sun, the wind, the garden with its many flowers, the ocean waves…

"But, alas, the winds of Fate have changed direction. Before you come home, there is another task you must perform." She grew serious. A mission. A trial. A quest. She would not fail. She cleared her mind, steeled herself, and read the command.

Waves crashed against the black rocks below. A gull soared by on a wind from afar, with a cry.

She read it again.

She turned the letter over. Blank.

She read the front side of the letter again, paying particular attention to the last few lines.

She took a deep, cleansing breath of ocean air. Subconsciously, her hands crumpled the paper as they curled themselves into fists.

"This is just one of the many trials one must overcome in order to become Noir," she reminded herself, breathing meditatively. "The survival of countless battles and traps; the skilful and efficient execution of missions; this is my life. I am the True Noir. I will carry out this task without question, without fear, without hesitation, no matter what it may be."

Breathe in, breathe out…

"No matter what."

Still…

A flock of starlings erupted from the garden as an aspiring maiden of darkness with a remarkable set of lungs screamed, "DAMN YOU, ALTENA!"


	2. Opening Moves

**Chapter 2: Opening Moves**

A dark drawing room: its carpet, thick and luscious; its walls, oak, polished and dusted daily, festooned with countless ceremonial weapons. A unique painting of three women hung above a grand, roaring fireplace, the room's only source of illumination. Before it were four of the most, if not _the_ most, influential men in entire world (all of whom, to judge from the green jackets, had won the PGA Masters Tournament at some point), reclined in luxurious armchairs, discussing matters of global importance.

"So," said one of them, "how about them Giants?"

He was met with a stunned silence.

"Has all that brandy finally gone to your head?" asked another, in an icy voice.

"It has not!" said the man, swirling a glass of brandy. "It's on the agenda, right after 'The IMF' and before 'Lunch'!"

"Is it meatloaf again?" asked a man with a signet ring. "That gives me gas."

"We _know_, oh, how we know," said a man with a cane.

A servant entered silently, bearing a covered tray, and whispered a message into one of the men's ear. He nodded. "Put him on, then, Alphonse."

Alphonse the butler (1) uncovered the tray, revealing a speakerphone and a small sheaf of photocopies, and left, again silently.

"This isn't lunch," noted the Ring-Bearing Man.

"No, it's our man in France, Brefford," said the Guy with the Cane. "He has important news, it seems."

"Brefford," scowled the Brandy-Swilling Man. "He _always_ has news. How much does he know that he doesn't tell us, I wonder?"

"You're just paranoid," said a bearded man. "There is nothing that goes on in the Soldats that we do not know about."

"I know," said the Brandy-Swilling Man. "But sometimes I get the feeling that that wily old man is the only one of us who really knows what's going on in this chaotic world of ours, or what to do about it."

"Shaddap and drink your brandy," said the Ring-Bearing Man. "Put him on, already."

The Guy With the Cane pushed a button on the phone. "Yes, Brefford?"

"Gentlemen," said the aged voice called Brefford, "I have urgent news."

"We gathered such; what is it?"

"If you would all care to look at the fax I sent over?"

They passed the photocopies around, and did so. "How did you get this?" asked the Guy with the Cane.

"A contact of mine intercepted it en-route to a safe-house managed by those loyal to Lady Altena. At great cost, I might add. It appears Altena has set Chloe in motion again."

"Can you be sure of its authenticity?" asked the Fellah with Facial Hair.

"I am. The handwriting, the parchment, and the seal are all Altena's. Plus, it was written with grape juice."

"Altena," said the Guy with the Cane. "What is she up to this time?"

"I'm not certain, but whatever her plans, we have to ready a response. Every day, Altena moves closer to the realization of her mad dream: _Le Grand Retour_, the wholesale upheaval of the Soldats, and by association the entire world. Her power waxes, and in no small part due to the actions of Chloe, her most trusted lieutenant. Gentlemen, we cannot let this opportunity pass us by. We know where she is, and we have the advantage of surprise. Strike now, and we can eliminate her, and disrupt Altena's plans completely."

"Are you certain this _is_ part of her plans?" asked the Brandy-Swilling Man.

"Altena, in everything she does, acts with a singleness of purpose, and she has passed this trait on to her servant. This move has doubtlessly been years in the making; it may seem obscure and unusual to us, but to her it is but another step in her grand scheme of things. With Chloe in motion, it is only a matter of time before Altena's next stroke falls."

"Yes, I know that," said the Brandy-Swilling Man, "but couldn't we be overreacting a bit here? I mean, 'Pick up a litre of milk from town,' that sounds pretty innocuous to me!"

"None know how that woman's mind works," said Brefford, gravely, "perhaps not even she herself. She moves in mystery, thinks in riddles, speaks in metaphor. There is no telling what this message means, or what Chloe will be doing in the town in question. But can we afford to pass up this chance?"

"And besides," added the Ring-Bearing Man, "do you really think Altena would send a candidate for Noir to do her grocery shopping?"

"Well, there was that unusual 'Trial of the 50-Per-Cent-Off Sale at K-Mart' incident a few years back."

"Regardless," said Brefford, "we must act. With the group's permission, I would like to authorize an immediate strike."

"A strike!" said the Brandy-Swilling Man. "Are you mad?"

"If the other factions find out about this…" murmured the Fellah with Facial Hair.

"Ah, but they won't, you see," said Brefford.

"How, exactly?" asked the Guy With the Cane.

"We'll send Jarvis."

"Jarvis…'Overkill' Jarvis? You are mad!" said the Brandy-Swilling Man. "Last time we used him he sent out 30 men, a fully-armoured tactical squad, and a tank! And that was to deliver a note! He thinks a nuclear device is subtle! He's dangerous! He's an idiot! He's --"

"— Expendable," noted Brefford.

Realization dawned. "Ah," said the Guy with the Cane. "Plausible deniability."

"If he fails, we will say that he overstepped his authority and paid the price. If he succeeds, we will have eliminated Altena's most dangerous piece, and we can silence him at our leisure."

"I don't know, I don't know, it's all so risky…" The Brandy-Swilling Man drained his glass in one swig.

"Jarvis may be stupid, but he's also well-connected in that city. That makes him valuable. And you seem rather set on killing him. I recall some friction between the two of you as of late, as well," noted the Fellah with Facial Hair.

"Secrets need to be kept," said Brefford, "and should he survive this, he'll have one. We wouldn't want him to let it slip accidentally, would we?"

"Yer a viscous bah-stard, Breffy," slurred the Brandy-Swilling Man, "and thah's why I loves yah. Wow, thisizzz some quality shi —"

"There he goes again," said the Ring-Bearing Man, as the Brandy-Befuddled Man tumbled from his chair. "Wasn't that his first drink today?

"Can't hold his liquor, that man," said the Fellah with Facial Hair.

"And isn't it lunchtime?"

"Hmm, yes, yes it is; Alphonse must have fallen asleep again," said the Guy with the Cane. He pushed a nearby intercom button. "Alphonse? _Alphonse!_ Wake up, you lazy ass!"

"We really should replace him," muttered the Ring-Bearing Man.

"Can't," replied the Fellah. "He's union."

"Um, gentlemen?" said Brefford.

"What? Oh, yes. Proceed with your plan, Brefford."

"Thank you." He hung up.

"And now, lunch," said the Ring-Bearing Man.

"_Alphonse!_" bellowed the Guy with the Cane.

(Footnotes)

1. Not the same one from the previous scene, although they came from the same temp agency (Alphonses 'R Us).


	3. She Moves in Darkness

**Chapter 3: She Moves in Darkness**

"Was breakfast satisfactory, m'lady?"

"Mm," said Chloe, dabbing her lips with a napkin. "The marshmallows carved in the shapes of rabbits were impressive."

"Thank you, m'lady; my joy knows no bounds," said the butler, in a perfectly flat voice. He glanced at the floor. "Shall I remove the _second_ corpse?" he asked, gravely.

"At your convenience," she replied. "I shall leave shortly." "Blasted ninjas get in everything," she thought.

He cleared away the dishes and box of Stabby-O's ("They're Sanguinarily Delicious!") and bowed low. "Have a safe journey, m'lady."

As soon as the door started to close behind him, Chloe stalked over to an ornate mahogany dresser in one corner of the room and threw it open. Twenty-seven trendy, expensive designer dresses greeted her, a wardrobe expansive enough to cover almost any social situation a growing modern woman might encounter.

"Except for one," she thought, ruefully, as she grabbed the 28th outfit. She tossed the black bodysuit, leather bracers, combat boots, and repeatedly patched green cloak onto the bed, and sighed. "Just once," she thought, looking over the fresh-from-the-store clean clothes in the closet, "I'd like to actually wear one of these things. Especially _that_ one: it was on sale and everything." She closed the blinds and changed into the outfit behind a nearby screen (for decency's sake).

Next, she carefully opened a second smaller but sturdier cabinet next to the wardrobe. Metal clinked. Light glittered off sharp, pointy objects.

Two daggers, their wicked edges evident even through their matte-black sheaths, were plucked from a rack and spun into hidden pockets. Ten laser-cut, finely balanced carbon-steel throwing knives were selected from a rack of 127 identical ones, examined meticulously, one by one, and then slotted into a noiseless velvet bandoleer, which she strapped on. She threw on her cloak, slipped the (now severely crumpled) letter from Altena into a pocket she'd sewn to its inside, then drew it tight.

There, she thought, looking herself over in a full-length mirror. That's everything.

But as she closed the weapons locker, something cold and black glowered at her from the back. "Not quite," it insisted.

She sighed. It made strategic sense, of course; the more tools she had, the more adaptable she was. And, she grudgingly admitted, you could only throw one of those knives so far. And it might come in handy in an emergency. On the other hand, she never needed it, she preferred to travel light, and it was a noisy, clumsy, random thing, so brutish and inelegant that, all things considered, she probably would rather be dead than have to use it.

She reached in and slung the Backup Plan behind her cloak, with visible reluctance.

She gave her hair a final check in the mirror ("Wind-whipped and spiky, "she noted. "Good."), turned on her heel, and stepped out the door, closing it behind her.

A third ninja assassin, nailed to the door by a spoon, flopped off and thudded to the floor.


	4. And the Darkness Follows Her

**Chapter 4: And the Darkness Follows Her**

A distant land.

A room, heavy with the smoke of incense, straw mats upon its floor.

A dojo, home to a group of martial artists whose name was known to only a select few: the Lai family: masters of the gentle art of assassination.

For 2000 years their members had lived in the dark places of the world, silent, deadly serpents feared only by those of the underworld, for those of the surface world never knew they existed until it was too late. Their peerless weapons, matchless skills, and fiendish poisons had laid low every man, woman, and child they had ever turned them against.

All save one, that is.

The Council of Five had gathered in this sacred place to discuss that grave dishonour, at least, in theory. In practice, three of the Consuls had sat kneeling on their uncomfortable floor cushions for the better part of ten minutes now, studying their hands, too shocked and ashamed to admit out loud that, for the first time in 100 years, one of their own, their best, in fact, had fallen in the field. As for the venerable Elder, he was in a deep state of meditation when they all arrived, and had yet to emerge from it. He sat, cross-legged, on a low throne at the head of the room, flanked by hissing incense burners, the smoke from which snaked about him.

The First Consul had had enough. "Shaoli is dead," said Lo-Pan, second eldest of the Five.

"One of our finest students," said Xu-Long, Second Consul and third eldest. "The first in seven generations to master the Black Vein Immunity Technique(1). Never again shall we see another like her."

"An outrage!" said Jintaou Hu, Third Consul. "To be left dead in a cold and desolate alley, slain by the hand of a coward in dishonourable combat!"

"Um, 'dishonourable'?" said Wu-Shu, Fourth Consul. "Aren't we assassins?"

"It's the principle of the thing!" blustered Hu. "We must avenge her death! The ho — _pride_ — of the Lai family is at stake."

"You are correct, honourable Consul."

Heads turned at that voice, smooth and oily, like an exotic poison poured glistening upon a blade.

Ma Sun, the youngest and newest addition to the Council, looked up from his notes. "Shaoli must be avenged," he continued. "And what steps have you taken to that effect?"

Hu sputtered. "Well…"

"Actually," Sun continued, suddenly curious, "what have any of you done about this, I wonder?"

The Consuls tried to bore holes through him with their stares. Their cataract-clouded glares bounced harmlessly off his focused, steely eyes.

Sun, it may be gathered, was not very popular amongst the Council. He was young. He had brains. He had skill. He had _hair_. Jet black, too, without a touch of grey or white (or dye) anywhere in the long, thick mane of it he paraded about everywhere. Well, actually, he kept it back in a thin, lacquered ponytail, but it was the principle of the thing. And he didn't have wrinkles, he didn't have arthritis, and he didn't have any respect for tradition. Well, all right, he did follow the traditional initiation ceremony into the Council to the letter (assassinating an existing member using a poisoned weapon), but there was still some question over whether a brick of C-4 dipped in neurotoxin really jived with the whole spirit of the thing or not. With his skills, his brains, and his hair, he very quickly amassed more influence and authority in the family business than all save the Elder himself. What's more, every other Councilmember had a tiny, niggling suspicion in the back of his head that, when it came right down to it, Sun was the only one among them who really knew what was going on in the Byzantine network of alliances, double-crosses, and blood-oaths that was their world (and what to do about it).

It vexed them.

"What can we do, Sun?" asked Lo-Pan. "The killer left no traces; our agents searched that warehouse from top to bottom."

"A serpent may cover its tracks, but it leaves them all the same," he said, sagely. "Elder," he continued, with a bow to the ancient one, "I have found the one who slew Shaoli."

"How?" Hu demanded.

"A contact of mine informed me of the killer's identity," he said. "She was an agent of an European organization known as the Soldats."

"Them? Ha!" scoffed Hu. "Young upstarts. They are mewling babes compared to us."

"They crushed the leadership of the Hong Ye Pan just two weeks ago," noted Wu-Shu. "And Shaoli, so it seems."

"And we shall crush them! Our blades have ruled China from the shadows for two thousand years; it will take more than some upstart band half our age to unseat us!"

"Precisely, venerable Consul," said Sun, who _was_ half his age. "My contact says the agent has retreated to a certain location in France. I propose to the Council that we send a team of our finest warriors there to eliminate her."

"Whom did you have in mind?" asked Lo-Pan.

"Wen-Lin and Wen-Rin."

"Them?" said Hu. "Mere girls. They won't stand a chance!"

"Wen-Lin and Wen-Rin were raised and trained together," said Sun. "Their speed and teamwork are legendary."

"Fast but weak," scoffed Hu. "We need someone strong, someone who can crush this assassin in one hand!"

Sun sighed theatrically. "And you would suggest?"

"My son, Lai-Chi! Strong as a mountain!"

"And just as thick," mumbled Sun.

"You dare…!"

"Sun has a point, Hu," said Lo-Pan.

"What!"

"Strength of arm is meaningless without strength of mind," he said. "And Lai-Chi, while strong as an ox, also fights like one."

"He has never failed this clan yet! Why, just last month he slew Mu-Shen, our sworn enemy, whom all you thought to be invincible in combat!"

"Yes, but he did it by planting an axe in his head," said Wu-Shu.

"And it worked!"

"But there was no artistry to it," said Lo-Pan, "no pride in the Lai family arts; just brutalism."

"Send Lai-Chi," fumed Hu, "and I swear to you he will defeat this assassin single-handedly!"

"You…swear?" asked Sun, archly.

"On my life!" said Hu.

Sun nodded. "We shall hold you to that vow."

"Three blades are better than two," said Wu-Shu. "Send them all."

"Agreed," said Lo-Pan. "What say you, Elder?"

The Elder meditated on the matter for some time, floating on a cloud of incense.

"Elder?" repeated Lo-Pan.

The ancient one's meditative focus was suspiciously absolute.

"Elder!" Lo-Pan shook him gently.

The Elder snorted awake. "Whuh? Hey? Wha?"

"The plan, venerable one? To avenge Shaoli?"

He blinked. His eyes were bloodshot, the pupils dilated to pinpoints. "Guh?"

"Ma Sun has found the assassin; he proposes we pursue her; what say you, oh venerable one?"

The Elder sucked in a cloud of incense through his nostrils. "Woah," he said, wobbling slightly. "The colours…"

"Elder!"

"Wha? Oh. Yeah. Yeah, kill her, kill her good."

"Ma Sun!" said Lo-Pan. "It is the will of the Elder that you send Wen-Lin, Wen-Rin, and Lai-Chi to France to break this treacherous blade, and avenge the death of Shaoli!"

"I heed your words, Elder, and yield to the will of the Council. I shall see it done at once."

He bowed low, head touching the floor out of respect, and departed. As he slid the rice-paper door closed, he could see and hear The Elder urging the Counsellors to gather around the incense burners and "try some of this $#$#." The door securely closed, he pulled a cellular phone from his robe, checked the messages, and dialled a long number.

"You called?" he said.

"We are in position," said a soft voice over the phone, "and have confirmed the target."

"Good. How is Lai-Chi?"

"Troublesome. He wishes to attack at once."

"Let him; you two proceed as planned."

He hung up, and headed out for some quality time in the dojo's garden.

(Footnotes)

1. Poison, while an effective assassination tool, has the distressing tendency to send its users into a nasty, mouth-foaming, eye-bleeding, heart-exploding death-spasm with but a single accidental prick. Antidotes work up until a point, but the deadliest of toxins operate far faster than any antigen. Some high-level practitioners can boost their resistance to poison by taking small, survivable doses of the stuff regularly. Some go further still, and ingest near-fatal amounts of poison almost daily, relying on their mental focus and supreme physical conditioning to protect them. Few, if any, survive such trials, but those that do become effectively immune to all known toxic substances. These true masters have so much poison in their veins that that their very blood becomes a lethal substance, and, rumour has it, turns the colour of death itself.

The process just described is not the Black Vein Immunity Technique.

The BVIT is the forbidden art of makeup tips used to cover up all those unsightly death-black bloodlines criss-crossing your skin so you can have an inhuman level of poison resistance and still look dead sexy while killing people with the stuff.


	5. How Convenient

**Chapter 5: How Convenient**

This was not a good night to be Mario Lugassé.

It'd all been a simple misunderstanding. Old man Largo was just coming off break, and they'd got to talking, and the jokes started flying, and how was he to know that the boss's dad was a rabbi, a priest, and an Irishman?

And now it was three AM, an hour he thought he'd seen the last of three months ago when he finally, after four months of diligent service, finally escaped the graveyard shift at Largo's 24-Hours-Is-A-Whole-Lotta-Convenience Store. Sunlight! Lunch! _David Letterman_! And customers! Actual, real, live people who wanted to buy things! And sometimes even talk! Y'know, without wobbling unsteadily, blinking out of sync, or, worse, vomiting? Or, in the case of Mr. Glengarry (the neighbourhood transient), all of the above, if his mile-a-minute recitation of the Zionist-Communist-Fascist-Libertarian-Green Party-Alex Trebeckian conspiracy counted as talk?

"Still," he thought, as he gave his novel another shot, "even Glen would be better than this."

Three AM the worst time of the day. That time when, for perhaps 27 minutes, the entire city went to sleep. The streets cleared, the sidewalks emptied, the flies took a break from their incessant orbits of the Galaxy-brand garbage can in the corner. It was that time 15 minutes after he'd finished sweeping, scrubbing, waxing, and Windexing the store from top to bottom, as the boss required, that time when all the wax, bleach, and alcohol fumes made his nostrils just give up and call it a night.

In theory, this was the perfect time to kick back and relax. Maybe listen to the radio? Take up a hobby? Ah, but the God of Convenience Stores (1) frowned upon such activities. So the light by the counter would act up, flickering like a distant thunderstorm, and Montgomery's All-Night Polka Hour would start up on the radio (stuck on one station). As for hobbies…

He'd tried singing. Back home, he'd wowed the locals at the karaoke bar with his renditions of "Bridge Over Troubled Water," "Sweet Home Alabama," and "Raspberry Heaven." And yet, it all seemed so pointless, serenading the Pringles™ cans with the low, soul-destroying rumble of the refrigeration unit as his musical accompaniment.

Not that the fridge was the worst part. Oh no.

He never noticed it at first. The lights were distraction enough. Then, one night, when he was halfway through Tom Clancy's latest thriller (_Green Eggs and Ham_), and the fluorescents decided to behave for once, he heard it.

_Squeak. Squeak. Sq-squeak_.

The hot dog machine, otherwise known as Le Gros Carnival. It's tubes of possibly-meat product gave its mechanisms a permanent, glistening sheen of thick, chunky, glutinous grease, so thick, in fact, that the machine had actually achieved some level of sapience. How else could you explain how it always knew to squeak _at the exact moment_ he reached all the good bits in the book (2) in order to ruin his concentration entirely?

Once, it went a whole five minutes without making a noise. That was a good night.

No, wait. It was a bloody irritating night since the damn thing jammed and caught fire. And he had to clean it with a toothbrush. _His_ toothbrush.

Right on cue, it squeaked again.

Mario gave up, tossed his copy of _Max Bolan: Professional Sous-Chef_ aside, and slumped on the counter, staring out at the black empty known as three AM The lights flickered. The fridge rumbled to life again. "Life…at least _it_ has something to do right now," he thought. He gave the glass counter a perfunctory wipe.

Countless scratch-and-wins looked back at him from under the glass. He sighed. He'd blown his spare cash on the blasted things for months, and had nothing to show from all of it except a severely worn quarter.

"Once," he said to them. "Could you give me a break, just once?" He looked to the heavens. "Huh? How about it? A little break for Mario? Doesn't have to be a miracle? Please?"

_Squeak_, went the hot-dog machine.

"Thanks. Thanks a lot." He sat on the uncomfortable stump Mr. Largo called a chair and groused. He'd missed _Letterman_. And _Leno_. And still had three hours to go yet.

"What kind of maniac wants to buy groceries at three AM, huh?" he cried.

A bell jangled. He jumped. And dared to look.

Could it be…?

A vaguely humanoid silhouette stood in the doorway, radiating menace.

"My god! A…customer?!" he thought. "Damn!" He gaped like a fish. There was something he was supposed to say, or do, now, wasn't there? His mind reeled.

The lights flickered.

…Sharp-edged hair, with bangs like the wings of a gargoyle, perched and ready to pounce…

…Piercing eyes, with a look that brought to mind steel, daggers, and unheard cries in dark alleys…

"And," noted some (very) small part of him, "a pressing need for milk."

"Ah, er, um…welcome?" he stammered.

That look nailed him to the wall. Suddenly, he wished he'd taped _Letterman_.

It softened, took on a hint of resigned irritation, and then swept slowly from one end of the store to the other. If he didn't know better, he'd have sworn the canned meat section cowered as those fearsome eyes prowled past (3). The look fixed upon the dairy section and focused to such laser-like intensity he thought the cheese would explode.

The figure shifted its weight and stepped forward. Thick, heavy, buckled, steel-toed boots stalked across the floor, a dangerous metallic clink accompanying each measured step. A velvet-green cloak, splattered with mud, rustled by the Pringles™ rack, and stopped by the freezer. A hand, surprisingly delicate in appearance, opened it. Cold mist spilled out over the linoleum as the figure scrutinized each jug of milk within it, testing each for expiration date and (apparently) throwing balance. Eventually, the figure settled on one, selected a bag of ice, and stalked towards the counter.

Ice and jug clunked on the counter, then jumped as some force collided with them from underneath.

Mario, slowly, cautiously, and reluctantly, peeked over the edge of the counter, rubbing the back of his head where it'd hit it.

"In a bag, please," said a soft, friendly, utterly non-threatening girlish voice.

Mario yelped.

The figure (a girl?) raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"A bag, yes, yes, of course, right away sir, I mean, ma'am, I mean…uh…" At this point, he remembered that the longer he spoke, the longer this customer would keep looking at him, and threw himself into his work. He reached for the sack of plastic bags, hesitated, and gravitated towards one of the more expensive cloth bags with the company logo on it instead, managing to cram both items into it on the second attempt.

"How much?" she asked.

"€4.95!' he squeaked. To his everlasting horror, his mouth kept going. "We've got a special on milk! Two for one!"

She considered this carefully.

A shotgun roared. The front door exploded. Safety glass washed over the floor. The metal "Open" sign, propelled by ballistic shock, whipped through the air, past the customer, and thudded into the wall-clock behind Mario, vibrating.

The girl didn't flinch; he did.

A huge man with ripped jeans, a ripped vest, ripped biceps, and a double-barrelled shotgun with the word "Ripper" painted on it goose-stepped over the wrecked door, followed by an equally massive male wearing a pistol, goggles, and a bullet-proof vest. They stepped to either side of the door, grinning. A third man, much shorter than the other two, stepped between them, fingering a switchblade. His hair was an oil slick.

Mario gulped. "Uh…h-h-hello…Greaser…"

He inclined his head. "Mario." He slid slickly over the broken glass. "Mario, Mario, Mario." The Ripper followed him, shoulders almost touching the shelves of the snack food aisle.

"What do you want?" said Mario.

"Mister Largo…he's an old man, am I right?"

"Uh, yeah, yeah, a bit grey."

"Old. Mind's not what it used to be? Maybe a bit forgetful?"

Mario started to say, "You don't know the half of it," and then remembered the security camera on the left wall. And that Largo could read lips. "Um…"

"See," continued Greaser, with his glittering knife, "if he was, it would explain things. Like why he hasn't remembered his insurance policy lately. Y'know, the one with Mister Pork?"

"Insurance? What insurance?"

Greaser frowned. "His 'Pay Up or We Torch Your Friggin' Store' one, ya moron! _Touch that and you're a dead man!_"

Mario's hands leapt back from the silent alarm switch.

"Raise 'em!" Mario did so. "Now, empty the till and the safe!"

Mario, sweating bullets ("Bullets, oh God," he thought, looking at the barrel of the Ripper), bent awkwardly at the waist and tried to open the till with his teeth.

"Lower your arms first, you idiot!"

"Yes! Sorry! Sorry Greaser!" The till rang open; Mario emptied its contents into a bag. Greaser snatched it.

"The safe," he said. "Now!"

"I don't know the combination!" wailed Mario.

Greaser made this kind of sucking sound between his front teeth. "Oooh. Too bad. Ripper?"

"(Grunt)?" said the huge man.

"Blow his head off."

"_No._"

The voice was a delicate flower, wrought of iron.

Greaser's knife hummed in a semi-circle. "Get lost, kid," he growled, "or get cut!" He brandished his knife under her ear.

She glanced at it, sidelong.

It leapt back, parried.

He gave a start.

"I have business here," she said, voice level as a razor. "You are…interfering."

"What the hell are you on, you little freak?" snarled Greaser. "Ripper! Specs!"

"(Grunt!)" they said. The Ripper stepped behind the girl and levelled his namesake at her head. The guy at the door pulled out his revolver and aimed it at Mario, who yelped.

"Stand aside," she ordered.

"You got a death-wish or something?" snarled Greaser.

Her eyes flashed.

"Please, for the love of God, don't kill anyone!' begged Mario.

"Way past beggin' time, Mario," said Greaser.

"I wasn't talking to you!"

The girl glanced at him, and nodded, imperceptibly.

Greaser snapped. "That's it! Kill 'em both! Now!"

"No!" screamed Mario.

The Ripper twitched his trigger-finger.

The girl blurred.

The huge man suddenly doubled over. Mario got a glimpse of his face, twisted in pain, before the girl, now crouched with her heel in his crotch, chopped both hands behind her back, connecting with his arms. Two sticks snapped. His arms went limp. The gun fell. She caught it in mid-air behind her back. The man realized he should be screaming in pain at the exact moment the gun's butt smashed into his jaw, shattering it. He toppled over, and crashed into one of the racks. Tortilla chips and salsa crunched and splattered everywhere.

"What the hell?!" said Greaser.

The man with the goggles, who was a bit swifter on the uptake, recovered from his surprise and re-aimed at her.

The girl whirled in a swirl of green fabric. The shotgun roared, blasting the man through the store's front window.

Greaser's jaw dropped. "Specs! Ripper!"

The girl rested the shotgun against the counter, and cocked an eyebrow in his direction.

He snarled, and charged, knife flashing.

She leaned aside, dodging it effortlessly.

Two hands grabbed his arm and redirected the knife into his left bicep. He howled. An elbow drove into his nose. He fell on his rear.

"Nu beech!" he said, cradling his nose. "Nyile hill nu! Hill nu ghud! Nyh ghunna…"

She took one step towards him.

He slid back three.

"Of your men," she said, softly, "one has two broken arms and a shattered jaw, the other a shattered rib-cage. As for you, untreated, you will bleed to death."

She glared at him. "I have spared your legs, so that you may run. Do so. Do not darken this place again."

Something more fragrant than sweat trickled down Greaser's pants. "Hippeh! Schpeks!"

Two very large men limped out the door and down the empty street.

Greaser took one look at the space they used to occupy, a second at the little girl staring intently at his jugular, and a third at the door.

His feet skidded on the glass as he paused in the doorway. He shook his one functioning arm in the air, revealing a bloodied nose bent perpendicular to his face. "Nyool phay fer dis!" he said. He fled into the night, whimpering.

Mario fainted.

At least, he tried to, but apparently his joints were fused solid with fear.

The girl, stepping neatly over spilled salsa and blood, headed for the back room. A lock splintered. A click. A whir. She returned. Mario saw the security videotape slip into her cloak as she stepped up to the till.

"€4.95?" she asked.

"Glllrk," gurgled Mario.

She nodded, reached inside her cloak, and rummaged around in it. A few wrinkles creased her forehead as her search continued with much slapping of pockets. She paused, perplexed. Suddenly, she slapped her palm against her forehead, and sighed.

"Um…problem?" asked Mario.

"I…cannot pay," she said, defeated.

Mario stared at her. "Uh, you, you don't have to. My treat. For, uh, what you did. To them. Those poor men," he added, with a horrified whisper.

She blinked. "But…this is a market. A place of exchange. There must be payment. A settling of accounts: a good for a good, an eye for an eye. There must be…balance…"

"Look, look," said Mario, wiping away the small waterfall tumbling down his brow, "I'll pay _you_, yes, and then you pay _me_, okay? Okay? All nice and even? Okay? Please?"

She studied the fistful of bills he proffered to her. "But…this is too much."

"For the love of God just take the milk and leave me alone!" he howled.

After a moment's thought, she slung the groceries over her shoulder. As she reached the door, she paused, and looked back. "I apologize for the mess," she said.

She stalked off into the night.

Mario slumped, and gasped with relief, clutching his chest. "That's it," he said, "I quit!"

_Squeak_, went the hot-dog machine.

He sighed, remembering his employment prospects elsewhere in this city. Like it or not, he was stuck here. Here, with its flickering lights, its noxious cleaner fumes, its trash can, and its thundering ball of spit, rage, and chin-stubble that was Mr. Largo.

At this point, he noticed the condition of the store.

"Shit!" he said. "Largo's gonna kill me!"

(Footnotes)

1. Makk-Stohr, he of the 21 arms, and 33 legs, and 18 hands bearing the 18 Sacred Koans (including "No Alcohol to Minors" and "The Cashier Doth Not Have Access to the Safe").

2. Example: "Vice-Commander Ding Chavez "Real American Hero" Cortez holstered his customized M1A1 carbine with under-slung grenade launcher, laser sight, and built-in CD player (standard issue to all Rainbow Splinter Op Centre agents) and said, "I'll have a quarter-pounder with _(SQUEAK!)_ cheese."

3. He _did_ know better, of course. Nothing intimidates Spam™. _Nothing_.


	6. Many Meetings

**Chapter 6: Many Meetings**

"Well, Mr. Largo?" asked the mild-mannered man.

"Hell, I'll settle for anything at this point," drawled Largo.

The mild-mannered man glanced to his left. "And you, Colonel —"

"The Klingon Empire will never yield!" said Colonel Jarvis, with a blast of spittle.

"…What?"

A uniformed man whispered in his ear. He snarled, drew a pistol, and shot him in the foot. The man paused, remembered something, howled theatrically and hopped away.

"This is outrageous!" he said, as loud as before. "Two million? For the rockets! Never! They're worth twice that, even with the name!"

Roland Porquillion, mild-mannered millionaire, rolled his eyes. "You agreed to the price not three minutes ago, Colonel."

He sputtered. "No, no I didn't! I deny it! You can't prove that! It slipped out! You heard me wrong!"

"Which is it, then?" said Largo.

"Diiiiiiiieeee!" Jarvis shot Largo's head off.

The general's wet, ragged, breaths hissed over the conference room speakers.

"Jarvis…" said Largo, rolling his eyes.

"Grrr!" he said.

"You're not in the same room as us, Colonel," Porquillion said.

"…Eh?"

"This is a teleconference, remember?"

He blinked (correctly, on the second try). "…I'LL GET YOU NEXT TIME, LARGO! NEXT TIME!"

"And wipe off the camera, please? It's expensive."

Jarvis snarled, and lurched forward, a small squeegee in hand. Largo grimaced as the man's armpit momentarily filled the 50' teleconference screen. He whispered to Porquillion, "Why the hell does he keep doing that?"

"It might be genetic," he replied. "A problem with the salivary —"

"Nah, I mean shootin' that dart gun of his." On-screen, the Colonel tugged at something just outside the teleconference camera's field of view.

"No idea," he replied.

Pop. The Colonel's hand jerked into view. "Ha!" he said, suction cup dart in hand.

"Let's back off from a settlement for a little bit," said Porquillion. "Colonel, you want information from Mr. Largo, correct?"

"A name, and an address," said the Colonel, reloading. "That's all."

"But they were difficult to get, weren't they, Mr. Largo?"

"I lost five men," he said. "_Expensive_ men."

"You should have been more careful," said the Colonel.

He raised an eyebrow. "I think you lost, what, twenty?"

"Twenty-three," grumbled the Colonel.

"So maybe you can see, then, why Mr. Largo wants to keep his costs down?"

"Well, uh…"

"And perhaps you, Mr. Largo, can understand the Colonel's reluctance to sell his products at half the market rate?"

"Yep," he replied.

"Good, that's a start."

"It's 'cause I got him by the balls and he knows it."

The Colonel roared. "You LOUSY LITTLE —"

"What in heaven's name are you doing?" whispered Porquillion, as the Colonel employed several crude adjectives (all scatological).

"Playing my part," replied Largo.

"Going a little far, aren't we?"

"All right, all right," Largo said, loudly. "Four million, and that's as high as I'll go."

"Ha! And HA! I laugh at you! HA!" said the Colonel. "After that insult, the asking price just shot up to a EIGHT million!"

"Then I guess somebody ain't getting no name then," replied Largo.

"Gentlemen, please!" said Porquillion, as the Colonel swore incoherently. "Let's try to be civilized about this?"

"NO!" said the Colonel.

"Mr. Porquillion?" buzzed the intercom.

"Yes, Koyomi?" he said, over the Colonel's cursing.

"There's a, uh, young man here to see you."

"I'm a bit busy at the moment," he said, as the Colonel went through (in explicit detail) exactly what he would do to Largo's internal organs. "Can it wait?"

"He's quite insistent, sir, and he's — sir? Hey! You can't go in there, you jerk!" The Colonel paused in his diatribe (having stumbled over what he would do with Largo's pancreas), and Porquillion heard a familiar voice shouting, "Meesh-ter Pawk! Meesh-ter Pawk!" over the intercom.

"Send him in, Koyomi," he sighed. He turned back to the negotiations. "If you will excuse me, gentlemen, an urgent matter has just turned up. May I suggest a ten minute break?"

"….Eh? What? Fine fine fine!" growled the Colonel (who had just remembered what to drink with Mr. Largo's liver).

"Time for a drink, anyway," said Largo, rising.

Mr. Porquillion stepped into the corridor after him, and exhaled. Community service was so trying, sometimes. "But in a city like this, someone has to do it," he thought.

"Meesh-ter Pawk! Meesh-ter Pawk!"

"Speaking of which," he muttered, as Greaser stumbled up the stairs, followed by his secretary.

"I'm sorry, sir, but, well, he threatened to bleed all over me!"

"Mishter Phork! Ezz terrible! Real bad, even!"

"It's all right, Koyomi, I'll take care of this. Take the rest of the morning off, will you? Oh, but first, send off those cheques to the United Way, and check in on the orphanage, will you? Thanks. Now, what's the trouble, Gerald?"

'Gerald' (who winced at the name) sniffed back some blood. "W-w-well, me 'n th' bhoies were-- "

"Just a moment, Gerald." Porquillion snapped his nose back into place. "Now, you were saying?" he asked, as Greaser made interesting noises.

"Uh, well, uh, (gods, that hurt), me, Ripper, and Goggles —"

"Ah?" said Porquillion, raising a finger.

"…_Roger, Patrick, _and _I_…" said Greaser.

"Better. Carry on."

"Well, uh, we were out doin' that neighbourhood watch like you asked us to, (y'know, helpin', uh, little old ladies and kittens and stuff), and we saw this chick robbin' old man Largo's place! So we runs in, and we, uh, have a civilized, uh, conversation with her, and she just _flips out like a ninja_, y'know, like, ya! tah! hi-YAH! 'n shizzit like that, with some HOO-YAH, and —"

"You were robbing the store again, weren't you?" he sighed.

Greaser paused in mid-'whuttah!' "Aw, c'mon, Mr. Pork, now that ain't fair! Me and Rip — er, Roger — went straight an' all!"

"Gerald…"

"'n Gogs, you saw how he helped that old lady across the street last week!"

"Gerald! Did…you…rob…the store?"

Greaser shuffled his feet. "Well, uh, maybe a little bit…"

"And yes, I did see that incident with Widow Gertrude. She gets out of the hospital next Tuesday, as I recall."

"Uh…"

"Dare I ask how much damage you did to the store?"

"Well, uh, we might've, uh…"

"Gerald…"

"…Not…much?"

Porquillion nodded. "So, you robbed a convenience store."

"Yeah."

"And you were beaten up."

"Yeah…"

"By a girl."

Greaser sighed. "_Yeah_…"

"And now you want me to do something about it."

"Well…yeah?"

"I suppose I could call the police, not that they'd do any good, mind you…"

"That's not fair, Mr. Pork! We had a deal!"

"Yes, we did," he replied, coolly. "And it was that I help you off the streets if you help me clean them up. And that means you don't go around robbing Quickie-Marts, Gerald!"

"It was just some harmless fun!" said Greaser. "We weren't gonna hurt nobody!"

"You're a terrible liar, Gerald," said Porquillion. "And I'm very disappointed in you. I thought you were better than this."

"I know I made a mistake, Mr. Pork, and I know you've done a lot for me and the boys, but this girl, we gotta do something about her! She's dangerous! She shot Goggles, and I dunno if Ripper will ever stand up straight again! And look what she did to my suit! We gotta do something about her!" He slid up close to him. "Let me and the boys go after her! We won't hurt her or nothin', we'll just spook her a bit, show her that we and you won't let her mess around in this town. We can even bring her to you so you can talk with her! You're good at talkin', Mr. Pork. Heh, I mean, you talked to me for five minutes and now I'm clean as a whistle. We can help her, is what I'm sayin'."

He considered this. "How are Roger and Patrick?"

"What? Uh, they're downstairs. They're tough, Mr. Pork, and they's behind me all the way on this one. They really wanna get, uh, _help_ this girl out."

"I suppose you'll go and 'help' this young woman no matter what I say." He sighed. "Very well. Take the boys and bring this girl to me. _Alive_," he added, after a look at Greaser, "and relatively uninjured. And be careful. If she puts up too much of a fuss, don't bother. No point in any of you getting yourselves killed."

"You can count on me, Mr. Pork!" said Greaser, flashing a manic salute.

"I won't," he muttered, once the street punk had clattered down the front stairs.

"What was that about?" asked Largo, coming down the hall, beer bottle in hand.

"A side project I'm working on," said Porquillion, as they made their way back into the conference room. "I recruited a local street gang to police some of the rougher parts of town."

"Fighting scum with scum?"

"I work with what I have. If that means paying off the roughest gang in downtown to bring some law and order to the place, then so be it."

"My god," said Largo, "you really are serious about cleaning up this town, aren't you?"

"Someone has to," said Porquillion, "starting with him," he added, with a gesture towards the conference screen. "And what exactly were you doing earlier?"

"Just yankin' his chain. Joking, joking!" he added, after one look at Porquillion's expression. "Nah, I know his profile. Erratic, unpredictable, and stupid. Get him angry and he'll make all sorts of mistakes. Like not checking his teleconference equipment, for example." He gestured towards the screen.

"I admit, the bug was a nice touch," said Porquillion, watching (and listening) to the Colonel having a heated radio conversation with someone. "I wonder if he realizes that the camera controls on his end don't actually do anything?"

"The way his mind works, would it matter?" Porquillion conceded the point.

"Wiped out?" Jarvis screamed into his receiver. "What do you mean, all of them? Then send reinforcements! _What do you mean, you already did?_ I'll have your head for this, you incompetent —"

"Let's finish this," said Porquillion, flicking a switch. "Colonel? Colonel, are you there?"

"What! What? Look, I'll call you back later!" The Colonel blasted back to his seat before the camera and flicked a switch. "Yes, yes, what what what? I'm busy!"

"Have you had time to consider Mr. Largo's offer?" he asked.

"Five million, plus the name," said Largo.

"Eh?" said the Colonel. "Yes, yes, whatever."

"Excellent," said Porquillion. "We'll meet at the arranged place in half an hour."

"Fine!"

"Five months of work," said Porquillion, after he closed the conference. "And it all comes down to this. I trust your men from Interpol are ready?"

"Ready and waiting," said Largo, taking a swig of beer. "We nail him tonight, we take down the third largest arms dealer in southern Europe."

"And I get my city back," noted Porquillion.

"There's one thing I don't get about you, Pork."

"Hmm?"

"Why the secret identity thing? Philanthropist by day, kingpin at night, but you're still, well, nice? Why do the whole criminal mastermind thing without the criminal bit? Not that I'm complaining, I'm just curious."

"Ever ran for office, Agent Largo? Oh," he added, as they stepped out onto the street, "my apologizes for what happened to your store."

"What?"

(Note from the author: I apologize for this chapter, and promise that the next one will be better. It has Chloe in it.)


	7. My Little Town

**Chapter 7: My Little Town**

It was stuck.

Chloe braced her foot against his chin and gave it another tug. No good; the blade was stuck fast. Curse his thick skull…

She sighed. She liked that knife. She called it Chico.

She hefted the corpse, knife and all, into the dumpster with the others.

It had been an interesting ten minutes, she reflected. She was used to ambushes, of course; they were part and parcel of any assassin's life. This had been the third one today. The first happened less than a kilometre from the safe-house — twenty ninjas disguised as a hedge. ("Damned ninjas," she thought, reflexively.) What was the second? She paused by the mouth of the alley, next to the overturned (flaming) jeep. Flames? Ah, yes, that strange assassin with the flamethrower in the warehouse. Was that before or after she saved the kittens from that collapsing building? "After," she recalled, with a snap of her fingers; she had had her purse when she bought treats for the kitties but _not_ after she jammed it into the passing madman's face during their fight on the overpass. And that was _after_ she knocked out those bank robbers, but _not before_ the bit where she showed a lost child the proper way to skin a cat (1).

Milk runs were always such a hassle.

At least this latest bunch had put some effort into it. Most of the assassins the Soldats sent after her came equipped with a gun, a knife, expertly tailored suits, and crêpe-paper body armour (2). These ones had Kevlar, assault rifles, and an APC.

Something exploded across the street.

"Ah, and a helicopter," she recalled, as part of its rotor assembly whiffed overhead. Now _that_ had been a tricky fight. She had almost wrenched out her shoulder on that one.

She stepped over someone's arm. She was surprised at how calm it was. Other than the crackling flames, the wreckage, the bodies, and the shell casings, the streets were empty and silent. No sirens, no police, no screams — nothing but the dead of night. She recalled that a local arms dealer, a Soldat by the name of Jarvis, had most of the local authorities on his payroll, so that explained the lack of police. The fire department burned down sometime last year. As for the screams, she had read somewhere that the city's inhabitants had once slept through a stampede of elephants (3).

"What a strange place to go shopping," she thought.

She stopped. "Come to think of it," she thought of it, "where the heck am I, anyway?"

She wasn't lost; she knew exactly where she was, and where she was going. But as for the actual _locations_ of those places, well…

That was the problem with living in The Manor, the ancient spiritual headquarters of a shadowy, quasi-religious international order, proverbially referred to as a place "forgotten by time": finding the damned thing on a map. She knew she was close to home, which was somewhere near the Franco-Spanish border, but had no real idea as to her actual location. She had been dispatched to countless nameless, placeless spots like this throughout her life, and had always found her way back home by dead reckoning.

("And walking. Lots of walking," she noted grimly, as she tried to shake a pebble out from under her heel.)

In all the excitement of her training as an assassin, she had never thought to plot all those places out on a map. Not that she trusted maps; the Soldat misinformation department made sure of that (4).

Where was she? Cordova? Cormenia? Definitely a 'cor' in there somewhere.

She shrugged. 'Wherever you go, there you are,' a philosopher once said. She was here, wherever here was, and she had a part to play; that was all that she needed to know. The 'why' and how of it would sort themselves out.

The light changed. She stepped out into the street (after looking both ways). Crossing the meridian, she spotted what appeared to be an extremely rare 1947 50-franc piece in the gutter. She picked it up, and, for wont of anything better to do, flipped it, watching it glint in the starlight.

A black shape. Moonlight off a great blade.

She flung the groceries and herself aside.

The greatsword sang. Stone splintered beneath it.

Hands flashed, hers, striking secret pressure points. She kicked off, flipped and landed on the opposite side of the street, crouched. She drew steel with her right hand, and caught the grocery bag with her left.

The franc pinged off the shattered street, and rolled to a stop. A ribbon of cloth settled next to it. Chloe realized it was from her cloak. She also realized that her hands really, really hurt.

This was because she had tried to punch through steel armour. The man in the street had a full suit of it. It was black, etched with Chinese characters writ in silver and gold, with a great red scorpion painted on the breastplate. The helm had a similar shape, the claws forming the cheek guards and a stinging tail covering the nose. The face within it was made mostly of teeth, with two pudgy eyes squinting out from it.

The maniac with the giant sword stepped out of the small crater he had made on impact. He was, Chloe noted, rather huge.

"Ha ha ha!" he bellowed. He swung his greatsword through a complicated figure-eight. "QUAIL, child! For you face now your DOOM!"

She flicked a knife through his head.

"Urg?" He went cross-eyed. Slowly, like a mighty oak, he toppled over with a crash.

Chloe pocketed the cloth and coin for later, and slung the grocery bag over her shoulder. As she walked away, she wondered how this clanking monstrosity could have possibly snuck up on her as he did. Well, her ears were still ringing from that rocket fire a few minutes ago, she recalled. And it had been a long day — a very long, trying day. "I liked this cloak," she thought, fingering its newly trimmed edge. She could probably fix it. "I think I still have some green thread…"

"**Halt!**" The voice boomed off the buildings.

She looked back.

A block away, the dead man walked. Ran. _Leapt_.

He smashed into the pavement not ten feet away. Chloe, she loathed to admit, was impressed.

"You DARE interrupt me when I am talking!" he roared. He pulled the knife from his forehead with a grunt. "You shall pay for that attack, which cost me many brain cells! Now…" He whirled his sword. "Know now the name of your doom! For I am —"

"Lai-Chi Hu, only son of Jintaou Hu, and wielder of the legendary blade Passing Wind?" said Chloe, matter-of-factly.

He staggered, as if struck. "How did you — I mean, YES! And I am your DOOM! HA!"

"Altena save me from fools wearing armour engraved with their family history," she said, after she killed him again.

The Lai clan. She recognized the clan symbol on the breastplate. She wasn't surprised; she _had_ killed their top student. "Come to think of it," she thought of it, "this does explain all the ninja attacks that have been happening lately."

"Damned ninjas," she added, under her breath.

"Strange, though, that they should send someone so foolish to do the job," she thought, as she reached the city park. If she had cared, she would have been insulted. Was this the best the Lai family could muster?

Something tugged at her foot.

Tripwire!

Things clicked in the night. She whirled. A swarm of razor-sharp needles zipped through her cloak. She dove for cover behind a bench.

Something was taped to it. It was small, square, grey, wet, and blinking.

She jumped. Hot force blasted the wind from her lungs as the explosion hurled her through the park's canopy. Reflexively, she bunched up, rolled, and bounced hard off a thick trunk. She rebounded into a defensive stance, back against a tree, head spinning and ears ringing.

"Don't panic don't panic don't panic," she thought, gasping for air. "Breathe, focus." She tried her best. Her ribs ached. Broken? No; chest guard took most of it. Still felt like she'd taken a cinderblock to the stomach. Maybe an elephant? A bucket of grapes?

She shook it off. "Delirium," she noted. "Exhaustion. Concussion? Mission!" She felt for the bag, and then spotted it hanging from a branch 20 meters away. "Safe."

Her eyes darted about. "Who? How many? Where?"

Movement!

She threw. The blade met flesh. Someone yelped. "A woman?" she thought.

_Click_.

A bolt snicked past her ear and thudded into the tree. "Made her miss," she noted.

A violet shape burst from a hedge ten meters to her right. She flicked a knife in its direction.

She gasped as the shape caught and hurled it back at her.

Chloe barely had time to dodge it, and the shape was upon her. Iron stabbed from its midst. It skittered off the steel back of her hastily raised gauntlets. She stumbled back from the thing's charge. Desperate twists and parries warded off its strikes.

Her heel struck root. She twisted, grabbed the assassin's thin, muscular arm as it struck, and drove the blade into the trunk. She spun, kicked the back of assassin's head into the tree, drew steel, and jabbed at the base of the spine.

_Chink_.

"Chain mail!" She cursed, silently, then leapt back as a short sword tried to remove her hands.

"The other one!" This one, a woman, had a wounded arm. Chloe dashed in; she had the advantage up close.

They struck simultaneously, and blocked each other's blows. Knife and sword danced under the stars. Chloe swept at her legs. The woman leapt, and chopped where Chloe was just before she rolled under her. A wild knife toss grazed the woman's thigh.

A ninja-to planted itself millimetres from Chloe's nose. She looked up, just in time to see the first assassin yank her second sword out of the tree.

She swiped at the killer as she spun upright, drawing her second fighting knife in the process.

Two feet planted themselves into her midsection, sending her flying through several small trees. She rolled to her feet.

Chloe shuffled back, trying to keep the two assassins in front of her as they tried to flank her. She was breathing harder than she would have liked. They were pretty good, she noted. Both women, by the looks of it, with the same height and build, too. "Twins?" she wondered. Probably, to judge what she could see of their faces. More messengers from the Lai family, she guessed. But not like the other one. Masks, full night camouflage, blackened blades, no ornamentation, not even a word out of either of them, and every strike a killing blow -- these were true assassins.

Her eyes narrowed. "And ninjas," she noted. "Why does it always have to be ninjas?"

A rush of wind, a storm of blades, and they were upon her. Thrust, jab, parry, twist, dodge, jump, block… the world faded away, save for her hands, her ragged breaths, the endless din of steel, and an ever-tightening circle of certain death.

Chloe realized something:

She was losing.

A stab hissed passed her cheek. A slash nearly eviscerated her. Two pommel-strikes, from opposite directions, struck her ribs. She caught a double chop on her arms. She stumbled, saving her leg from amputation through sheer luck.

She backed into a stout trunk, and gasped. The twins pressed the advantage. She tried to ward them off the blows, but there were too fast, and too many of them.

Two swords sang towards her head. They bit into the wood, criss-crossed over her neck, and pinned her in place. Shocked, she fumbled her knives, and struggled to free herself.

Two needle-sharp spikes stopped millimetres from her eyes. She gasped. The faces of her killers were right next to her. She could see their skin — lily white, spider-webbed with rose black — and hear their breathing — calm and synchronized. She saw in their eyes no pity, no life, nothing; they were dark as space, like pits in their heads. A curious sensation crept over her hands and knees. The life drained out of them, as terror, nature's deadliest poison, flowed into their veins and stole towards her heart.

"Chloe of the Soldats," said the twins. She gasped. The voice was not heard, but felt; a tingle on the back of her neck, like a spider on her spine.

"For the honour of the Lai family…" They stepped back. "You must die!"

They drew back to strike. The clouds parted. Chloe looked up. There was a shadow upon the moon, and it was her death.

And a voice in her head whispered, "You _govern_ death."

Time slowed. Hot blood from her heart thundered in her ears, poured fire into her limbs.

Her hands moved. The air felt thick. She grasped the swords across her neck, pulled, and swung with both arms. Dispassionately, she observed how they warped slightly as they hummed through the air and snipped through the spikes aimed at her head. She dived forward, grabbed her knives, rolled —

Time snapped back with a roar. Literally.

The 303-pound hulk that was Lai-Chi Hu smashed earthwards with a mighty battle cry, his legendary blade splitting the oak trunk from tip to root, his armour-clad feet almost flattening the twins.

"Raaa! Curse you for moving!" he roared.

"Lai-Chi! You fool!" hissed one of the twins.

He was beyond listening (not that he listened). He twisted his hands, and freed his greatsword in a storm of splinters. "Victory to the Lais!" he bellowed. Back and forth his sword swung. Mighty trunks shattered before it. The air churned with splinters, leaves, and a family of squirrels (very angry).

"Stop, you idiot!" yelled one of the twins, smacking him in the face.

"Ur?"

He did.

Leaves pattered softly to the ground. The scent of split wood and sweat lingered. A small log bounced off his head.

"She's getting away, you fool!" said one of the twins.

"Ur?" he said, blinking away testosterone.

Then the squirrels jumped him.

As the ninjas dodged his frantic attempts to slice them in two, a cloaked figure vanished into the woods.

(Footnotes)

1. First, find a cat. Second, prepare the cat by bathing it in warm water, mixed with lavender oil and no-more-tears detergent. Third, dry cat using a soft towel (mind the claws!). Fourth, locate the nearest brick wall. Fifth, bash your skull against wall until all desires to strip the living flesh from a cat are expunged from brain (plus or minus any associated encephalic fluids). Sixth, pet cat. Last, take up a healthy habit, like fork collecting. No, you can't have any, these are mine, mine, mine.

2. "But it worked for Bond!" wailed the Soldat quartermaster, moments before he was fed to a pack of rabid laser bees.

3. An urban myth -- the elephants actually walked in single file, paused for traffic, and wore big fluffy shoes (in compliance with local noise ordinances (5)).

4. She knew, for example, that the actual borders of the European nations fluctuated on a daily basis (depending on power shifts amongst various factions of the Soldats), and that Luxembourg was an optical illusion.

5. Which did not exist.


	8. Flight

**Chapter 8: Flight**

Chloe staggered into the alleyway and collapsed.

At least, she thought it was an alley. Hard to tell, through all the spots and stars in her vision. Oh, and the millions of rusty, white hot needles that shot through her lungs every time she hyperventilated. Bit distracting, that.

A few minutes ago, it felt as though her legs were on fire. She couldn't feel them anymore they must have burned off.

On her third attempt, Chloe managed to convince her arms that they were not, in fact, lead weights, and pulled herself upright.

"Stay calm, Chloe," she told herself. "Control your breathing. Don't black out."

She blacked out.

She jumped to her feet moments later, terrified. "What? Where! When?"

Then she remembered why you shouldn't stand up really fast when all your blood's pooled in your legs, and collapsed again.

"Think I'll lay here for awhile," she thought, woozily. "It's a nice place. Dirt. Trash. Mud. No one trying to kill me. Hey, look, a mouse. Hee!"

Let's see now… how did she get here?

The past few minutes were a blur of speed. She remembered branches; some were stuck in her hair. Running. Jumping. A car. ("Damned teenagers," she thought.) Seven or twelve random turns. An alley. Another alley. Did she get the bag? Must have; it was in her hand and all. And did someone _really_ coat that block of C-4 with neurotoxin? (1)

And now she was… in an alley. Yes. An alley. Noun: a narrow passage between or behind buildings. Yup.

So. She was lost. Very lost.

On the plus side, there were no ninjas here.

"Damned (pant!) ninjas (wheeze!)," she said.

She slithered upright.

She stifled a scream.

"Ribs are pain," she thought. "Joy." Let's see, she had an emergency medical kit somewhere in this cloak, yes? She cracked it open, hoping for morphine. Or vodka. Preferably both.

She got a sandwich.

And a note.

"My darling Chloe," she read, "I thought you might be hungry, signed, Altena."

Out of habit, she checked the back.

"'Bon appetite.' Oh."

She took a bite.

Grape jelly.

Again.

She dropped it on the mouse (2). "Damn you, Altena," she muttered. "I wanted roast beef."

So. Lost. Wounded. Pursued. Not, upon reflection, her best night on the town.

Well, at least she could defend herself.

She checked her weapons. Funny, she didn't remember fighting a blender. "I'm boned," she thought.

She shuffle-slumped out of the alley, gritting her teeth against the pain. She looked up, sighted on the North Star, and limped in the general direction of home. The precious grocery sack dangled from her clenched fist. "This had better be some darn good milk," she mumbled.

She bumped into someone. "Pardon me," she mumbled.

"Well-ah, well-ah, well," said a slippery voice, "what a coincidence, eh boys?" Greaser cracked his knuckles. Ripper and Goggles laughed in a menacing matter before clutching their sides in agony. "Just the one we were lookin' for." He sneered, staying just out of striking distance. "You and me, we're gonna have words, girl. You owe me…for this."

He pointed at his nose. It was quite swollen, and very red. Someone had fixed it.

Always one to repay her debts, she broke it again.

"(World of pain)!" he said.

"You're welcome," she said, turning to go.

A hundred tiny, deadly turnstiles clicked in the night.

"Funny," thought Chloe. "Didn't notice them."

'Them' referred to the 77.5 men (3) various heights, shapes, and body piercings that made up the snarling, be-weaponed mob that occupied the street, several nearby roofs, and her immediate future.

There were guns. There were knives. There were chains. There were sticks (the big ones, with the nasty pointy bits).

There was even a sheep.

It had a Mohawk.

"Bad sign," thought Chloe, spotting it. She eyed the mob as they closed in, trying to stare them all down.

"Git 't!" spat Greaser, as his associates helped him to his feet. "Yur g'n git it! We ghnn stab yuh, gut yuh, 'n stab yuh guts, 'n, uhh… Ahh, jus git 'r 'lready!"

The mob heaved, like indigestion in spiked leather. The front line roared, charged, raised their blades, clubs, and axes…

…saw their opponent's feral eyes…

…and hesitated, for just a fraction of a second.

Two thugs became sprays of blood. Another's head snapped back and stayed there. A third spun on his own axis. Blade and boot swished in silent, deadly arcs, a single chord of carnage lost in the symphony of brutality. Men fell, some dead, some dying, others faking it, all trampled into the ground by the onrushing horde.

"Too many of them!" Chloe realized, as she dodged a truck shaped like a fist. "Run!" A giant with an axe tried to chop her. She drove it into the dirt, ran up the arm, and kicked off the face. Shouts of rage and confusion followed her as she ran across the sea of shoulders and dove for the nearest unoccupied location: the alley.

Which, she now realized, was a dead-end.

"Nuts," she thought.

Bullets spattered in the dirt about her feet. A punk with an Uzi rained death from above as a huge man slipped on a carelessly discarded jelly sandwich (4). Chloe charged towards the end of the alley, kicked off the brick wall, and floored the punk with a flying fist. Rolling over him, she bowled over two psychopaths, ploughed past a maniac, and shoved an actually-quite-stable leather fetishist into the screaming mob below.

"After her!" yelled someone.

She ran. Men got in her way. They died.

"Long strides," she panted, skipping over an alley, "distance, that's the key." She landed hard on an aluminium roof. Clumsy boots clattered after her, followed by the screams of those who didn't make the jump. She chucked a handful of knives over her back with her free hand, and smiled (just a little bit) when they hit. Another leg-stretching leap. "Only two on this roof," she noted, as she spun through them. "I must be losing them!" She sprinted up a long, steep incline, leaned forward, tensed herself, and jumped.

It was a magnificent leap. The shouts of the mob fell away. The night wind whistled through her hair, and chilled her aching limbs. The stars rushed towards her — why, she could almost touch them, it seemed! Giddy with adrenaline, she laughed, just once.

Dark clouds parted. Pale, cold light washed over a forest of trees far below. A river of black glass sparkled in its midst.

"Huh," she thought. "No building. Well. How about that."

She screamed. A lot.

The night wind roared past, and tore at her cloak. She tried to remember what her first instructor had told her about falling off cliffs. "Ah, yes," she recalled. "'Don't.' Simple, straightforward, and useless, like all his advice. No wonder I killed him."

The man had, however, taught her to disassociate her mind from her body in times of great strife, to see the battle with a tranquil eye, unclouded by fear, pain, or passion. She did this now. "Okay, Chloe," she thought, as she continued screaming, "this looks bad, but you can do this. Ready? Here's the plan: you "

She crashed through the canopy, snapped through some branches, and hit the river's surface like a bomb.

"…Close enough," she thought.

(Footnotes)

1. Yes.

2. "Huzzah!" thought the mouse.

3. People used to ask Brutus about what happened that fateful evening when he was locked in the zoo's crocodile exhibit with nothing but a pair of salami underpants for protection. They died. Those that asked about the underpants were quietly introduced to a clandestine purveyor of edible undergarments, and then died.

4. "Aww…" thought the mouse.


	9. Reflections on Field Medicine

**Chapter 9: Reflections on Field Medicine**

She woke with a sneeze.

Cold. Freezing cold. Why was she cold?

"Wet," she realized. "Water?" She convulsed in a fit of coughing. "Inside and out," she noted, spitting up a few litres of it. "Dirt. Face. Dirt in face. Get up. Get…up!"

She flopped over. Her shoulder was killing her. Probably from the fall, she guessed. Wait…what fall? Oh, right. That one. "Who in their right mind would build a warehouse next to a cliff?" she wondered (1).

Chloe started a damage assessment. Cuts? Check. Bruises? Check. Concussion? "Whoa, pretty trails," she thought. "Check, I guess. How's the shoulder?" She used the ancient medical technique of 'poking it to see what happens' to find out.

"Huh," she thought, when she regained consciousness. "That hurt." Whatever it was, it felt big. She pulled out a knife to get a better look at the wound. "Yep, that's pretty big," she noted, looking at the reflection. It was a ragged, oozing tunnel through her shoulder, from some sort of magnum round, by the looks of it. "Funny, didn't even feel it. And why do I feel so light-headed?"

Something dripped on her cheek. Water? No, it was warm. Her fingers were wet with it, whatever it was. She sniffed it. Coppery. "Ah," she thought. "Must be blood then." She felt around the wound, carefully. Yes, that was blood all right. "Awful lot of it, though," she thought. "Guess I'm bleeding, then. Huh."

The clouds scudded by. A few frogs, after getting over their initial shock, resumed their nocturnal serenade (2).

Bleeding…blood loss…that was important, wasn't it? It was hard to think, for some reason. "Let's see," she thought, "the blood is the life, right? So I, being of life, would have blood. So, if this is blood, and it is going _out_ of my body, this means that life, best kept in, is going out. Hence the terms, 'haemorrhage,' and 'bleeding to death.' Ah, that explains things." She smiled, pleased with herself.

Then she screamed.

One hand clamped down on the wound and hauled her upright. "Med-kit!" she panicked. "Where's the med-kit! Wait…sandwich! Damn you, Altena! Damn! No kit, no suture, no chance! Damn, damn, damn! Augh, I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die! No, no time for that! Think! Improvise, damn it!"

"Okay, um, um, needle, need a needle…throwing pins! Of course! Wait, is this one of the poisoned ones?" She eyed it, and gave it a lick. "Lemon-flavoured, good. Okay, next: thread. Got it!" She half-choked herself with her cloak's drawstring before she remembered to untie it first. "Good thinking, great! Okay, now to sew. Just close it up. Like patching a quilt. Yeah. Simple."

Her hands trembled too much to thread the pin.

"Yeah. Simple."

She got it eventually. "Okay," she thought, "you've done this before. The rest is easy." She picked up a stout branch and bit down. "Just over, under, repeat…"

It hurt. A lot.

The stick plopped into the mud, cleaved nearly in three. Chloe followed, mostly intact.

"Good girl," she thought. "Now, that wasn't so bad, now was it?"

"Shut up," she mumbled. "And stop talking to yourself."

A flash of a knife, a few knots, and a lot of grunts later, and she had a respectable field dressing in place. "Good," she thought. "Now, get up, and get out of here."

She managed to get about a foot off the ground before her arm gave out.

"Okay," she thought, "little exhausted. That's okay. Everything's cool. Try it again, with both arms."

"Mrph," she mumbled into the mud.

"Excuse me?"

"Mm," she repeated.

"Fine, if you think it does so much for your complexion, do that. Just don't come crying to me when you run out of oxygen."

"Mffich."

"Yes. Yes I am."

It wasn't that hard, actually, once she shut out the nest of flaming razor worms in her shoulder (and that gristle-grind noise in her ribs). "Good, good," said that irritating voice in her head, "now the legs. Start with the knees… searchlight!"

Lamps zigzagged overhead. Thick-booted men with skulls to match crashed through the bush with the grace of Boris Yeltsin at Oktoberfest.

"Still think Greaser's lost it," one said.

"You weren't there, man," said another. "That kid, she's some sort of ninja or something. Cyborg-ninja. Cyborg-zombie-demon ninja from hell, even. Like somethin' outta that show, what's the name, Mad-Fax?"

"Whatever she is, she ain't gettin' past me. Gotta eye of a hawk. Yeah. Nose of a wolf. Guts of a…a…a homin' pigeon!"

"A what?"

"Vicious bastards. I remember back in 'Nam…"

"See?" said the voice in Chloe's head. "Nothing to worry about, if they're all that dumb."

She peeked above the grass.

"Okay," said the voice, as she slid against a trunk, "I admit, there are a lot of them. Still, '37' is just a number, right? And you can dodge bullets. All you have to do is stand up, lose the goons, fight through 20 blocks of hostile territory with one working arm, and walk 30 kilometres over rough terrain in pitch blackness before you die of exhaustion, blood-loss, hypothermia, infection and/or (damned) ninjas, and you're home free. Oh, and don't forget the milk. Okay, snap to it!"

Slowly, she oozed to the ground.

"Come on, Chloe," wheedled the voice, "you're not going to let this beat you, right? You? Beaten by a bottle of milk? You are stronger than this. Men cannot stop you. They flee before your sight, fall beneath your blade. Nature cannot stop you. She burns with her desert sands, cuts with her jungle grass, chokes with air like ice, and you live. You will survive: it is your fate. It is who you are: the flitting shadow, moonlight on steel, the last breath…Noir. Now, get up!"

"Tired," she mumbled. "Hurts."

"I know that," it said. "There's a good chance you're hallucinating as well. But the mission, Chloe, the mission! This task was entrusted to you, and you must not fail! So rise. Fight. Live. Now!"

She tried. She fell.

"I said, _get up_, you filth! Is this all you've got? After the years of training, the endless rounds of conditioning? After all Lady Altena has done for you? You think you know pain? That you have suffered? Think of the horrors she has endured, what thousands will know at the hands of man should you fail. Now, _get up!_"

"Nn."

"Fine! Then give up. Surrender. Die! Die, here in the cold damp dark of nowhere. Die, as you were for so many long years: nameless, weak, and afraid. Die: rid the world of your pain and despair." She sobbed, just once. "The world has no place for the likes of you."

Her hand, shaking, raised a keen edge on high. "Make it quick. Go with what little dignity you have left. Do it. Do it now. NOW!"

_Thunk. _

A frog blinked, bemused.

The voice, too, was perturbed. "Uh, I think you missed, girl. I mean, I can't be sure, but since we're still _alive_ and all, it's a reasonable hypothesis to make."

She left the blade stuck in five inches of tree and yanked a second from the straps of her gauntlet. Its twin stiletto-thin tines sparkled with excessive polish. "Well, it's a bit small," said the voice, "but if you start at the eye and keep going…"

Chloe ignored it. "This was a gift," she remembered. "From a…friend." She turned the tiny thing, an ordinary, two-pronged fork, in her hand, watched it catch the light. "Small, strong, simple, beautiful, deadly. Two points of light defiant against the velvet night, destined to come together…as one."

She remembered the night she received it. She remembered the tea — its smooth taste and smell, snaking through the air to coil, warm, in your chest. There were voices, too, talking — just talking! — their words soft, gentle things cuddled by the tongue and pushed gently into the air, so unlike the commands of her countless instructors, or the choked cries of her opponents.

Two voices: so different, yet bound by the same thread of fate as she. The first, the exile's, was just as she'd expected: rich, cold, and dignified, like a fine wine whose taste stormed the mouth head-on, but hid subtleties in its rich bouquet (3). The other's…so quiet! Like a twilight breeze on the nape of your neck! To hear her voice after so many years apart was electrifying. She could see her now: the tousled hair, lunar face, teacup eyes…so like hers, long ago.

That night, the long night in Paris, just the three of them, together, not watched from afar as it had been for too long, but up close, personal, as friends. They talked, oh, how they had talked! How strange it had been to speak without fear! To feel, for the first time, that she could share her thoughts with someone who did not fear her, and would not harm her! (4) How long they had talked for, she couldn't remember. But she remembered the warmth, the soft fall of moonlight, the joy.

And the promise.

She clutched the fork so tight that it trembled. "I…_will_…see them again," she whispered. "I promised. She, me, and her friend…once more, before the end." She hauled herself up, hope, passion, and pure, stupid, bull-headed determination sent roaring down nerves ravaged by the pains of the flesh. "I…cannot…die here. I…_will_…not die here!" She pulled the soiled grocery bag out of the mud. "This…_thing_…will get home, and so will I!"

"You go, girl!" cheered the damned voice. "I knew you had it in you! Now, on yer feet, atomic batteries to power, turbines to speed, and set course for home, yo!"

"One word," she hissed, fork brandished at her temple, "just _one more word_ and I'm coming in there after you, got it?"

The voice almost pointed out the philosophical and physiological impossibility of that threat, reconsidered, and decided to read a book (5).

"'Atomic batteries to speed?'" she thought. "Where did _that_ come from?"(6)

(Footnotes)

1. The Acme Parachute Company, of course.

2. It was mostly about sex, of course, with the occasional beer commercial.

3. BWAH HA HA! Ha ha ha ha ha! Heeee, that's just baaaad…

4. Most readers are probably aware that Mireille Bouquet and Kirika Yuumura had a slightly different perception of the Curious Incident of the Tea In the Night-Time (best summarized by the chapter of Ms. Bouquet's autobiography (_Why I Hate Grapes_) dedicated to the subject, entitled, "Aaagh! Aaagh! Aaagh!"). These readers have been shot.

5. "Don't Stab the Small Stuff, and Its All Small Stuff."

6. _Transmetropolitan_, by Warren Ellis.


	10. A Short Pause Before the

**Chapter 10: A Short Pause Before the…**

_Author's Note: A scholar of medieval warfare has informed me that chain mail is useless against a really good stab, so that ninja that Chloe stabbed in the spine should have died instead of going "chink." Obviously, the ninja was wearing a limited form of splint mail with metal plates along the spine. Remember: there are no errors, only retroactive explanations. _

Out of the shadows of the night rose a shapeless fear.

It did a shaky-shaky dance, scattering shiny droplets everywhere.

"Teflon," thought Chloe. "What would I do without you?" She pondered this. "Die of pneumonia, I guess."

She slid the fork, her two-tined talisman, back in its place of honour by her right hand, and then lashed the hated milk to her belt. "Home," she thought. "I will get home, no matter what!" She stalked, determined, into the underbrush.

_Squelch_.

She cringed. Of course, the boots just _had_ to be wet, now didn't they? No, no need for steps like the footfalls of the wolf on the snow-covered tundra, now is there? "No time for that," she admonished herself. "Adapt. Maybe if you did it like…" _Squish_. "How about…" _Squirt_. "Uh, maybe…?" _Squink_. "Oh, hell and damnation…"

The shapeless fear shuffled, limped, cursed, and (above all else) squelched through the forest, its fiery determination thoroughly extinguished by the bucket of Bad Luck. "Stupid boots," she thought. "Stupid milk. Stupid, stupid Altena and her stupid jam sandwich!"

She whirled at something in the corner of her eye, tripped, and did a face-plant into a tree.

"Stupid…trees." She sighed. "What next, dare I ask?" she asked the heavens.

Two thugs trampled by. "See, and when the watch _breaks_, it means — HEY! YOU!"

"Damn it!"

She stabbed them. A lot.

"That's better," she noted. "Not by much, though."

She crashed over a fence and blinked in the hellish streetlight. "Cover!" She hobbled down a few alleys, turning at random. A quick peek into the street…all clear. "Finally. Now, what street am I on?"

A man marched around the corner and bounced off her. "Sorry," she said.

"Glk!' he said.

She froze. The night went inexplicably quiet, as if forty-two people were holding their breath.

She looked over her shoulder.

Greaser, his snout protected by some bloody socks and forty armed men, looked back.

He made a decision. "Ghit 'er! GHIT 'ER NOW!" he screeched.

Blades sang. Hammers clicked.

Chloe literally _flew_ up the side of the nearby building. Bullets followed.

"Okay," she thought, panting on the rooftop. "I'm 10 stories up. That's probably bought me 10 minutes."

"SEEL T' AREA! GHIT EFFYMUDDY EER NOW!" Greaser screeched.

"Five minutes," she noted. "And ow, ow, _ow_, that was not good for the shoulder. Shut up. Stand, move, get some distance!"

She hobbled along, jumped, flailed wildly as she noticed the next building was several meters lower than she'd expected, and bounced to an undignified stop.

Two violet-clad identical ninjas blinked at her surprise entrance.

So did Chloe. "Oh, for the love of…" she muttered.

They struck. She rolled, stopped just short of the edge, flipped to her feet, and drew.

"Gnh!"

Pain forced the knife from her hand and buckled her knees. She clutched the shoulder. It was slick with blood; felt like the stitches had ripped open (among other things). The arm was dead, she realized. "And so am I."

She was wrong — for now, at least. "They're…not attacking? Just watching?"

The women held out their blades. Slowly, and in perfect unison, each drew a vial from the folds of her costume, opened it, and poured precious, luminous death upon them. A flourish to spin off the excess, and they were ready.

"Ah. Tradition." Chloe, after picking up her fallen weapon with her good hand, stood shaky on her feet in a low stance, knife hand held high, the other down low beneath her cloak. "So," she thought. "This is it? Time for a last stand?"

They rushed her.

She spun.

A hail of darts met them from beneath her cloak.

"Maybe later," she thought. She jumped off the building.


	11. FIGHT SCENE! FIGHT SCENE! FIGHT SCENE!

**Chapter 11: FIGHT SCENE! FIGHT SCENE! FIGHT SCENE!**

"Maybe I should have thought this through first?" Chloe thought, as she plummeted to a messy death. "No — no time. They're better, stronger, faster, and have more blood in them than me. Only chance is to surprise them, be spontaneous. Oh, right. The ground. Best do something about that. Okay, what do we have? Wind, rushing, pigeon, brick, pavement…ah. Fire escape."

She snagged it, swung, and slipped through a small window, shooting torpedo-like past an incontinent old man (1) on a toilet and through the bathroom door. "Oak," she noted. "Good finish, too." She rolled, hopped an ugly couch, grabbed the doorknob, pulled, and —

"!"

— took a pair of ninjas to the face.

"How the blazes did they get here so fast?" she wondered, as she skidded off the kitchen table. "Ninjas. Right. Damn them." Shuriken thudded into the wall. She fired back a desperate volley of cutlery, a dinner plate, and a ham, finally stunning the one on the left with a chair to the head. Splinters flew. Knife raised for the kill, she leapt, and then hesitated. "Did I just throw a _ham?_"

Mistake. A swing from the one on the right knocked the knife away, and a kick sent her into the stove. Chloe caught the next jab on a pot lid she'd hooked around her broken arm and redirected her opponent into the lamb stew(2). Seeing her first opponent recover out of the corner of her eye, she grabbed the closest thing she could find and swung. The ninja dodged the loaf of French bread easily, but didn't expect the spice rack on the backswing. Neither, for that matter, had Chloe.

The battle raged in the kitchen stadium. Spices soared. Ketchup and soy sauce splattered the walls. A terrible thing dripping carrots, potatoes, and a thick sauce with too much basil in it went down in a hail of steak knives. Chloe swung her blade and scored a slash on her other opponent's brow. The woman nearly floored her with a knee in response. Chloe gasped for breath, winded, and stumbled to the ground. The woman moved in for the kill, and cursed as her eyes unexpectedly filled with blood.

"_Yes!_" Chloe barrelled into her like an express train from Hell. _Thunk._ Steel pierced flesh, mail, bone and wall, pinning her opponent. She stunned her with her improvised shield, spun, snatched a weapon from the floor, and stabbed her in the heart. "HA!"

Her foe gasped, twitched, blinked, and, to her surprise and confusion, utterly failed to expire.

Chloe did a double take at her weapon of choice and sighed. "A spoon," she muttered. "Why'd it have to be a spoon?"

The woman shrugged her eyebrows and smashed her in the face.

"Okay, I deserved that," she thought, as she sailed backwards, right into the second ninja. Arms clenched round her throat. She flipped, snagged a ceiling fan with her legs, spun, and tossed her away. The fan came loose in a crash of sparks and masonry onto the kitchen table. Chloe rolled off and jammed the whole mess into her opponent's midsection with a grunt, pinning her against the wall. The one staked to the wall yanked her cloak. Fed up, she clocked her with the lid and rammed the knife further into the wall before skittering out the door to freedom.

"Right," she thought, as she shuffle-limped along, trailing masonry, blood and 11 herbs and spices. "That should hold them for a few seconds or so. Exit, exit, exit. Stairs! Stairs good! Door, open…oh, for heaven's sake —"

Three-hundred-and-three pounds of berserk Chinese assassin smashed the emergency exit, a door, a couch, and Chloe through the exterior wall in a mad, howling, painful bull-rush. Chloe, briefly, cursed whatever gods might be listening before she bounced, painfully, off a passing semi-truck, snatching the edge out of instinct. Street signs and sidewalk whipped by. She gasped. She was slipping.

Strong hands grabbed her wrist and pulled her aboard. She was about to thank them profusely when they suddenly slammed her into the trailer-top. She bounced, rolled, coughed. "What the?"

A great sword hummed through the night air, decapitating a passing street sign. Hu grinned, his cheeks covered in tiny scratches and bloody paw prints. "Now, assassin, we FIGHT! HA!" He struck a dramatic pose as a traffic light clonked off his helm.

Chloe, despite herself, gave him a look. "You just saved me, and now you want to kill me?"

"Gravity shall not claim your life this day, puny one!" he boomed. "Tonight, your soul belongs to the clan of LAI!" He charged, bellowing a battle song.

Thirty rounds of .45-calibre ammo perforated his breastplate as Chloe emptied the Backup Plan into him.

He gurgled red. "Urgh?" he managed, before toppling into the street.

"Idiot," thought Chloe, dropping the gun. The driver, apparently used to having corpses drop off his truck, stopped at a red light. Chloe took a few moments to try and stop her head from spinning. She gave the universe a sarcastic glare. "Okay," she wheezed, "what's next?"

Three trucks-load of Greaser's finest spun to a stop in the middle of the intersection. "Get her!" someone shouted.

Chloe sighed. "I hate you," she said to the universe at large.

Several thousand bullets, a few Molotov cocktails, and a rock perforated, scorched and dented the hapless semi-trailer in a fearsome 38-and-a-half gun salute (3). Chloe hit the deck, slightly concerned with all the flying death. "Surrounded!" she thought, bullets zinging around her. "No cover! Can't run, they'd waste me, can't make the jump to the building with the bad leg…"

"Waste the mutha-trucker!" said a voice. Chloe risked a peek over the cab to see a group of youths levelling several large, bazooka-like objects in her direction.

She managed a good seven steps before the rockets' red glare caught up with her. Bombs burst in the air. A great billowing red-hot cloud of _fwhackoom_ flung her skyward. Stars and streets whirled like a bad special effect before mercifully coming to a sudden, and solid, stop.

She moaned. "Gravel," she tried to say. "Why'd it have to be gravel?" It came out as, "Mluugh."

Ears ringing (bleeding?), she wobbled to her feet. The blurry wreckage of a semi-trailer blazed merrily below her. Men cheered and fired off automatic weapons in a festive manner, sounding somehow close and far away at the same time. "Huh?" she thought. "Whazzall the cheerin' for? Why's my head so blurry?" She did a quick vision test. "One, two, seven fingers…is that right?"

A bullet zinged off the roof's edge. "Hey!" yelled a voice. "She's still alive! Get her!"

Chloe shuffle-hopped off in a random direction, trying to shake her head clear. "Must get away," she muttered. "Must to get home, finish mission. Must stop talking to self."

A mailed fist to her jaw brought her back to reality. She stumbled back. Something lithe and lethal swished past her neck and pinged off brick. She rolled. A second swing bit into the rooftop, spitting stone. She whirled, bringing her arm up. The third blow pierced her shield with a shriek, and stuck. The ninja struggled to free her weapon.

A steel hand latched onto her wrist. "What?" she gasped.

Chloe squeezed, hard. Her mouth tasted of iron and copper. Blood pounded in her ears. She was vaguely aware of the world going blurry and red around the edges. A low, feral, animal growl clawed its way up from her lungs. Just before all rational thought decided to nip off for a tea break, she heard a fearsome, angry, raging thing snarl this hate-filled curse through gritted teeth:

"_God…damned…NINJAS!_"

Screaming, Chloe launched herself at the purple thing before her. _Crack_. The world flashed white, and she felt someone's nose break through her skull. She let desperate rage guide her hand to the blade, wrench it free, and stab, stab, stab. Clank, clank, _thunk!_

The thing cried out. Its partner yelled something long and angry in Cantonese. The rage flung the makeshift shield behind Chloe, bouncing it off an incoming skull. She leapt after it, swinging wildly, hurling deprecations against gangsters, ninjas, and the world in general, but particularly the bits with ninjas in them. Her wild blows sang off armour, sliced flesh. The blade pinged off brick and snapped. Too late, she saw her opponent's hand dart inside her robes, fumble, draw, _stab…_

The world stopped. The red mist dropped away. The cold night rolled in, bringing with it the sharp-edged clarity of shadows and midnight. Before her, a surprisingly young girl, white skin etched with black, laid on her back, panting. One arm clutched a shoulder, which seemed to be wounded. The other, Chloe noted, seemed to end somewhere in her gut.

She remembered to breathe. It hurt. Her hands shuddered, dropped the broken blade. Her opponent shoved her aside. She was distantly aware of hitting the roof. It looked like the girl was helping that other lady to her feet. Who were they again? Ninjas? She wondered, briefly, why that word seemed to irritate her so much, and why the world seemed to be moving in slow motion.

Her hand drifted down her chest, found something, and pulled. The simple dirk slid out easily, glistening with something dark and warm. "Oh," she thought. "A knife. That explains things."

A voice seemed to be jabbering at her from the back of her head, far, far away. "Strange; this doesn't hurt nearly as much as I thought it would." The blade fell from her hands. "I just feel sort of…numb. Kind of…tingly?" A snatch of her consciousness's babble caught her attention. "Poison? Oh, yes, that's it. It must be a poisoned blade. Probably a neurotoxin. I'll be dead inside a minute."

Wait…dead? Dead! She started to panic. "No, wait! I don't want that! Not now! Not here!" She rolled to her knees. A chill spread through her chest. It was getting hard to breathe.

The girls, supporting each other, watched her dispassionately. She reached for them, knowing it was pointless. This was the end, she knew. She was doomed to die. She had tried, and tried, and tried again, and now, on this lonely roof in a nameless place, she had failed. "Failed?" she thought. "I…I've failed…her?" Panic froze into despair and dropped into the pit of her stomach. "Altena." Light and sound drifted away. "My lady…I'm sorry…"

Darkness.

She blinked. No, wait, not quite. What's that light over there?

"Chloe…"

And who said that?

"Chloe…" It was a soft voice, warm and tender, strong, stern, and full of love.

Altena! Yes! It was she! Dearest teacher, honoured mother, Altena! There she was, before her, clothéd in heavenly raiment! (A distant voice muttered about oxygen deprivation, hallucinations, and the use of the word "clothéd.") She fell to her knees, wept tears of joy, and embraced her. "Altena!"

The lady of light smiled. Soft hands surrounded her. "My dear, dear child."

Chloe wept. "Forgive me, my lady! I, I tried my best, but…"

She stopped. The lady pressed a finger to her lips, and shook her head. "All is not lost, dear Chloe. For there is yet another deus ex machina in store for you."

"Eh?" Far away, a distant voice slapped its forehead.

The lady clasped her wrist. "Remember, Chloe," she said, her eyes and hair aglow with strange lights. "I have given you the Light of Eärendil— "

"Huh?"

"— a light for when all others go dark. Use it, and come home to me!" She released her, and gently pushed her away.

"Wait!" said Chloe. "The Light of What? What's that supposed to mean?"

She gasped. The world was back, and with it, the chill touch of death. Her wrist, strangely enough, felt warm.

In a dream, she got to her feet. The ninjas leapt back, and drew steel. "How?" said the one on the left.

Chloe touched her right gauntlet. There was the fork, of course, she thought. "Did she mean that? No…she must have meant…" She noticed a small bulge next to the fork's sheath. "Oh. I forgot about this." She slid it out.

The crystal tube glittered, filled with a strange liquid.

"An antidote?" said the one on the right.

"Poison?" said the other.

"No matter," said the first. "Let us finish this!"

They charged. Chloe popped the stopper and tipped the vial back. She'd choked most of it down when she realized that it tasted a bit familiar…almost as if it were…

She spewed. Grape juice! "Damn you, Altena!" Blades swung…

…and stopped.

Chloe, mid-way through her systematic execration of all things grape and purplish, risked a look at her oncoming doom.

Small drops of vitamin-enriched violet goodness glistened upon the girls' faces. The one of the left blinked, wiped a cheek with her fingers and tasted them. Her eyes went wide with terror. "Grape…juice," she whispered.

"How?" said her associate. "How did she know our one weakness?"

Chloe blinked. "Uh, what?"

The one on the right grabbed her and drew her eye to eye. "Clever move, blade of the Soldats," hissed the ninja, "but there will be others after us. You will never be safe. You will never escape…our…our…" Suddenly, her hands flew to her throat, out of which escaped a bone-rattling, asthmatic wheeze. Her twin did likewise. The two fell to their knees, gasped, choked, thrashed a bit, and died.

Chloe paused to reflect on these developments. "What in the world…?" Cautiously, she gave the closest twin a little kick to the shin. Nope, nothing. She checked for a pulse. Nada. She lifted their wrists. They were limp as fish. "They're…really dead…" she realized. "But…how?"

"Well," said the voice in her head, apparently consulting a book, "judging from her last words, and her symptoms, it appears that both succumbed to a severe and fatal case of anaphylactic shock."

She blinked. "Allergies?" she whispered. "But that, that's so incredibly….stupid!"

"Yep," said the voice. "And thank you ever so much for wasting our last words on such a ridiculous subject."

"Huh?" Then Chloe realized her heart had stopped. "Oh."

She fell.

Stars.

Wind.

Glass.

(Footnotes)

1. "Well, it's a durn good thing I was _here_ when that happened!" he said.

2. Mr. Rufflepants was a big eater.

3. Safety catch was on.


	12. Tying Up Loose Ends

**Chapter 12: Tying Up Loose Ends**

Five suitcases clacked open. Largo slid one over to the other side of the table. "There," he said. "Just as we agreed."

The Colonel gave him the evil eye. "Count it!" he ordered.

One of his bodyguards stepped forward and did so. The other 12 or so armed men in the warehouse fingered their guns nervously. The Colonel glared at a passing roach suspiciously. Several minutes passed.

"Is everything to your satisfaction, Colonel Jarvis?" asked Mr. Porquillion, at the head of the table.

The guard examined a bill with a magnifying glass, then held a hurried conference with his boss. "What!?" The Colonel leapt to his feet. Safeties clicked. "HA! I KNEW IT!"

"Knew what, Colonel?" said Porquillion. Largo's hand crept towards an inside pocket.

"Perfectly legitimate!" spat the Colonel. "No tracers, ink packs, explosives, counterfeits, or bills cleverly soaked in exotic blowfish toxin! Just as I suspected!"

There were sighs of relief all around. Largo pulled out a cigar. "Like I said, just as planned."

Jarvis smiled pleasantly, then noticed what his guards were doing. "What the hell are you doing?" he said to them. "Put your weapons down; these are our guests!" The guards blinked, shrugged, and did as he said. "Now," he continued, still smiling. "the name and address."

"Whoa, there, Lone Ranger," said Largo. "I've shown you my cards, now it's your turn."

The Colonel nodded, and snapped his fingers. Twelve men with automatics stepped from the shadows and took aim at the cowboy and his party. "HA!" said the Colonel. "Full house! You did not expect the mighty Jarvis to play fair now, did you?"

Largo shrugged. "Well, no, actually."

"What?!" Jarvis sputtered. "But, but, I was all fiendish and evil and…never mind. Now, hand over the money and walk away, or we'll shoot you in the face instead of the back!"

Largo turned to his associate. "Any suggestions, Mr. Negotiator?"

Porquillion shrugged. "No, it's over to you, I'm afraid."

Largo nodded, and cleared his throat. "Boys?"

Men with infrared goggles leapt from the shadows. Guns clicked. Red dots danced over The Colonel's chest. "Interpol!" shouted one of them. "Freeze!"

Largo lit his cigar and winked. "Royal flush, boy. And you're in the bowl."

Jarvis snarled. "Curse you, Richards! None may defeat Doom! PHASE TWO!"

Yet more men with infrared goggles leapt from the shadows and took aim at Largo. "HA!" cried the Colonel. "YAHTZEE!"

Porquillion gave him a look. "That's a completely different game, you oaf," he said. "Although I suppose that is what this has become, isn't it, Mr. Largo?"

"Yeah," said the cowboy, slowly raising his hands. "Sorry, Porky, should've brought more men." He motioned for his men to stand down.

The Colonel laughed heartily. "You thought you could defeat the legendary Aardvark of Afghanistan! Well, you thought wrong!" He grinned, nastily. "But before I kill you in an extravagant fashion, Mr. Bond, there is something I must know." He turned to Porquillion. "Why you, Pork? Why? I thought we had an understanding?"

Porquillion shrugged. "We did. You understood that I was harmless, and I understood that you were a maniac."

"Why you —" The Colonel levelled a pistol at him, then nearly dropped it in shock as he calmly plugged the barrel with a finger.

The man gave him a cold, level stare. "And though I die this night," he continued, "I die knowing that you and your kind are doomed. I cannot stop you, Colonel Jarvis. I miscalculated, and I apologize to you and your men for that, Mr. Largo. But someone else will. For there are still some good and just people in this world, yes, even here, in this city, my city, despite all your efforts to make it into a pit of despair and corruption. And if there is a just God in heaven, Colonel, He shall send someone to save this city…and end you."

"Blah, blah, blah," said the Colonel, "time to die." He cocked the hammer —

The moonlit skylight shattered. Out of the night sky fell a black, monstrous winged thing, surrounded by spinning shards of glass. It crashed, hard, onto the meeting table, scattering cash and men alike, and lay still.

"Holy spit!" said a guard. "It's Batman!"

"Curse you, Detective!" roared the Colonel. "I swear, every time I'm about to shoot someone, it's always crash, bang, zap, pow with you!"

Just then, the doors to the warehouse burst open. A small mob trampled several of Interpol's finest. "She's in here boys!" cried Greaser, leading his gang. "I swear I saw her — sweet candy apples, that's a lotta guns!"

Porquillion paled. "Gerald! Get out of here! This doesn't concern you!"

"Can't do that, boss," said Greaser, who secretly really, really wanted to. "Us boys gotta to stick together." And there're 20 guys with machine guns in front of the exit, he added, mentally. "Uh, okay fellas? We don't mean any trouble. Just, ah, give us the girl and Mr. Pork and we'll pretend none of this never happened, 'kay? Please?"

"Girl?" said the Colonel. "What girl?"

"Ugghh…" Her face jig-sawed by cuts and blood, the dark, shredded mass that was Chloe lurched to her feet and looked Jarvis right in the eyes.

He screamed. "Iä! Iä! C'thulu freakin' f'taghn! Aagh! Get her! Shoot her! Kill her! Use the bullets! That's what they're for!" The guards turned as one.

"Open fire!" ordered Largo, drawing his gun.

"Run, Gerald!" said Porquillion.

"Aw, spoon it," said Greaser, "_waste 'em, boys!_"

"Eh?" said Chloe.

Just then, a half-dead, half-mad Taiwanese assassin in bullet-riddled armour bearing twin machine guns happened to smash through the wall.

Hu took aim, took a deep breath, and said, "_DIE, CHLOE, DIE!_"

At this point, Chloe did the one thing she could do.

She ducked.

And then it was Omaha Beach, Hamburger Hill, the first day on the Somme. Hell burst forth from almost a hundred thundering trumpets, shattering men and metal alike. Wood splintered. Lead flew. Brass tinkled on the ground in an aesthetically pleasing fashion. A flock of white doves appeared from nowhere and was immediately blasted into pillow stuffing. Soldiers, special-forces, and gang-bangers fired wildly, their death screams lost in the painful pandemonium. A white cowboy hat disintegrated. Greaser was greased. The Colonel shook spasmodically, shouting "I'm TONY!" as the bullets took him down. Hu fell in a blaze of gory. And Porquillion hid his face in shame.

An eerie calm settled upon the land. Blood and mist mixed with smoke and cordite. One last shell spun slowly through the air, bounced off someone's cold, dead hands, and landed with a soft, angelic, "ting."

Then the Colonel's rockets ruined the effect by exploding.

Fire and ash rained upon the dead, and landed on a small hand. "Ow," said its owner.

Chloe sat up. She looked _exactly_ like Hell. "Why am I still alive?" she thought. "Maybe if I…" She blacked out. "Nope," she thought, as she woke up seconds later. "Didn't work. Darn."

Something black and bullet-ridden landed on her. No, wait, it was green. Well, it _was_ green; now it was kind of that colour you get when you take green and spill a lot of blood and ash and fire on it — y'know, green-with-blood. Eventually, Chloe's overwrought, concussed brain realized that it was the lower half of her cloak. "Thread," she thought. "Yeah, green thread. Lots of it. Still got some. At home…home?"

She gasped. Home! Altena! The mission! She felt frantically for the precious cargo. Gone! Where? Where was it? She spotted a sooty bag a few meters away. She crawled over the dead, reached out, and grabbed it.

It was full of holes. Chloe watched in horror as the last of the milk dribbled from the stricken container, splashed to the floor, and pooled into a small, sad, puddle.

She slumped, staring at nothing. Something was stinging her eyes, she realized after a moment. Blood? No, this was wet, but clear. Tears? "Am I crying?" she wondered. "Over…over spilled milk? That's so incredibly stupid!"

"Let's not go through that again," said the voice in her head. "Uh, Chloe? You can stop crying now. Chloe?"

She couldn't. What started as a few tears became a rush of despair, and wracked her body with waves of sobs. "It's not fair!" she said. "I tried! I tried so hard, really I did!"

She wept. The voice in her head, after a moment's hesitation, patted her on the back. "Um, there, there?"

"Why does this have to happen every time I go to the store!?" she wailed.

"That doesn't matter, Chloe," soothed the voice. "Look, there's a deluxe first-aid kit over there by the dead guy. Let's drag our carcass over there and use it before we die of blood loss, internal injuries, massive cranial trauma and woe, 'kay?"

"Why?" she sobbed. "What's the point? I've lost. I've failed her! Her hopes were with me, and I failed her!"

"You're talking to yourself, again… cripes, it's only milk! Geeze, just go to the store and get another jug or something!"

That's right! A faint fire flickered in her eyes. There was hope yet! All she had to do was stop her guts from spilling out, find a pint of blood, go to a store, pull out her purse and…blast! "I have no money!" She swore (in a ladylike manner) and pounded the earth in frustration.

_Click_. Her fist bounced off an attaché case, which opened. She blinked, and then inspected one of the bundles of cash within. "Huh," she thought. "That's a lot of money. Now all I need is —"

Chloe looked out the window and blinked again. "Wow," she said. "That really _is_ convenient."


	13. His Brother's Name is Pedro

**Chapter 12-and-a-Half: His Brother's Name is Pedro**

4 AM: not that bad, actually.

Mario swept the last of the glass into the dustbin. Not that bad for an hour's work, he thought. Cleaned the aisles, restocked the shelves, replaced the door (how _did_ Mr. Largo know to keep spares in the back, he wondered), and just a few minutes to go before quitting time. And best of all, he added, no psychopathic Gothic-Lolita ninja grape women trying to kill him! He was alive! Wonderfully, beautifully alive! With his trusted broom and bucket at his side, and the hum-drum-hum of the refrigeration units to keep him company. "Amazing," he thought, "how a brush with death puts everything in perspective."

_Sque —_

"You even think of finishing that noise and by Heaven I'll burn you alive with Squeezie-Cheese!" he roared.

_Eek_, went the hot-dog machine. Mario swore that it was trying to hide in the corner.

He took a deep, cleansing breath. "No worries, Mario," he thought. "No worries. You are calm. Serene. Normal. Going home in five minutes. Nothing bad is going to happen. You are safe. Everything…is…cool. Sure, the warehouse across the street exploded ten minutes ago, but that's normal, right? Happens every night (1). Nothing to worry about. Just walk, _slowly_, to the checkout, keep your hands where you can see them, and turn off the lights."

A bell jangled. His heart stopped.

Slowly, with all the enthusiasm of a young camp-goer who just knows the fellow with the hockey mask is behind her, he turned to face his doom.

He screamed. And screamed. And, just to be sure, screamed again. An angel of death, robes ragged, face caked with blood, loomed in the doorway, a hunchbacked mockery of all that was bright and good in the world. In its right hand was a blackened sword; in its left, a massive maul.

Mario raised his hands in the sign of the cross. "Take it!" he squealed. "Take it all! Just spare my life, Lady Death! Spare me! Eyargh!"

The angel of death sighed, and slumped to the ground.

The lights flickered back on. Mario was only slightly less terrified by what he saw: the blood-soaked bandages, the makeshift cane, the mud-caked clothing. It was the girl, the one from before…no, his mind corrected him, no _girl_ did that to those men! Quickly, strike now while the demon is weak!

His hand closed around a nearby frying pan, then paused. Maybe it was pity, maybe it was love, maybe it was the fact that he'd just mopped the floor, but something stayed his hand. He sidled crab-wise over to the girl ("_Customer_," scolded his inner shop-keep, "she's a customer!"). "Um, may I help you?"

The girl gave him a look. He flinched, and then, after a brief check, realized she had not, in fact, beheaded him. She sighed. "Yes," she whispered.

"I…could call a hospital, maybe?"

She waved him off. "No, I'm good."

"Oh."

She mumbled off a list of a half-dozen items. He collected them — quickly, as his shoppy-sense told him she was not the type to keep waiting. "Okay," he said, with manic cheer, "that's a litre of milk (skim), package of ice, some McMrtyle's Choco-Chip Cookies, Flintstone's Chewable Morphine, a really fast taxi, a My Little Pony Transfusion Kit and two pints O-negative!" He paused. "I didn't even know we had this stuff!"(2)

The girl nodded. A car from Bean Bandito's Taxi Service screeched to a halt outside. "That really is fast," she whispered.

Mario dove for cover behind the Doritos™ as she struggled to her feet, leaning heavily on what looked like a bullet-riddled two-by-four. The girl opened her maul, which Mario now recognized as a briefcase (while still insisting that in the hands of this woman it could, and probably would, stave in the skulls of anyone who looked at her in the wrong way, or _any_ way), removed a handful of something, and shuffled away. "Keep the change," she whispered. She collapsed into the taxi, closed the door behind her, and was gone.

Mario sagged. "I'm so quitting this job," he muttered. Let's see, he saw a poster for the Foreign Legion on the way over, sounded promising, very safe, relaxing, far from violet-tressed psychopaths…wait a minute. "'Keep the change'?"

He scrabbled over to the briefcase and looked at it.

He looked at it again.

He touched it. Smelled it. Grabbed fistfuls of it in both hands. Slowly, like the skin of an overripe peach, his face split with a grin born of manic joy and happiness.

"YES!" He laughed long and hard, tossing fistfuls of bills in the air as he danced a gleeful money-jig. "YES! I'm rich! RICH! Finally, I can get out of here and retire to Hoboken with its shining beaches and loose women and hot, hot cars!"(3) He rolled giggling in the money. "Thank you, God! Thank you, Purple-Haired Lady (pleasedon'tcomeback)!" He leapt to his feet. "Screw you, hot dog machine!" he cried. "Screw you, Largo! Screw you, exploding warehouse! I am _outta here!_ Because tonight, this night, _Mario's a-gonna WIN!_"

Twelve police cars screeched to a halt around him. "Freeze! Interpol!"

He sagged. "You suck, God."

_Squeak_, went the hot-dog machine.

(Footnotes)

1. It did, actually.

2. Cookies had been in short supply since the '90s Atkin's Revolt.

3. Geography was not his strong point.


	14. Homecoming

**Chapter 13: Homecoming**

A lone figure, breath ragged, body ravaged, limped across the dusty plain. Her makeshift walking stick creaked in time with her bones. On occasion, she stopped to gasp for breath, but never for long; some inner fire drove her on, forced life and movement from flesh that long ago should have dropped dead from exhaustion. Rows of twisted vines stood watch on either side, crying purple tears of sympathy.

"(Unintelligible) bullets," muttered Chloe. "(Unintelligible) taxis. Horrid, stupid, (unprintable) ninjas!"

"Come on, girl!" squealed the voice in her head. "You're doin' great! Almost home! Go Chloe go! Rah! Rah! Rah!"

She pointed an imaginary fork at her forehead. The voice dropped her pom-poms and sulked.

Chloe stopped, and not just because she'd lost feeling in her legs, for once. "Over that ridge," she thought. "Is that…?" She squinted, wiped bandage out of her eyes and blinked. "White robes, purple fringe, chestnut hair…" She gasped. "It's her! My lady!"

"Altena!" The ecstatic cry rolled o'er hill and dale. She ran (well, limped), all sorrow and pain forgotten. A wellspring of joy (or was it an artery?) burst in her chest and filled her lungs with love. After all her trials, all her battles, all her suffering and ninjas, she was home! Back where she belonged, to the arms of the one who loved her so!

"Altena!" she cried, tears rolling down her cheeks.

_Snap_, went the walking plank.

_Whump_, went Chloe.

"Hate…the…world," she muttered.

"Chloe?" said an angelic voice.

She leapt to her feet (well, swayed, and it was more like her knees). "My lady!"

"Chloe!" said Altena. "At long last, you have returned!" They embraced. "Let me look upon your face, my child." She gasped. "Chloe? Why, whatever has happened to you?" She squinted at something in the distance. "And why is there a flaming wreck of a taxi upon yonder hill?"

A million flaming curses tried to fit through her lungs at once. She picked the most appropriate one, sighed, and laid her head on her lady's chest. "Ninjas," she said.

"Oh."

"But I did it, Altena!"

"Chloe, perhaps you should rest before —"

"I did it! I completed your sacred quest! Oh, there were hardships! Oh, there was danger! There were gangsters and rockets and ninjas and mean, nasty cliffs, but I did it, my lady! Your trust in me was not misplaced, for _behold!_ I have brought to you _du lait sacré_, the holy MILK!" She presented it, triumphant. "Praise me?" she added, mentally.

Altena accepted it, confused. "'Milk'? But, Chloe, why did you…"

Her manic joy faltered just a bit. "The, the quest, my lady. The mission you entrusted to me? You, ah, sent me this letter, remember?"

The lady read the bloodstained, bullet-riddled page with difficulty. "Oh my," she said, after a while.

"What? What is it, my lady? Is it the wrong type? Is it expired?" I'll _kill_ that freakin' shopkeeper, she thought.

"No, no, my dear, the, ah, _lait sacré_ is in excellent condition. It's just that…oh, dear, this is embarrassing…"

"What? What is, my lady? Have, have I somehow brought shame to you?"

"No, you did well, Chloe. It's just that, well, after I sent that letter, I remembered that we lived next to a quaint agricultural village full of people fanatically dedicated to our cause, so I decided to walk down to Farmer Roy's house and borrow a jug." She scratched the back of her head, embarrassed. "Isn't that funny, Chloe? … Chloe? Chloe! Oh my. Borne! Marennes! (1) Bring a stretcher!"

(Footnotes)

1. _Author's note: these are the name of the two talking nuns in the show. Marennes is the psycho with the sword. Borne gets shot by Altena, I think._


	15. The Game Plays On

**Chapter 14: The Game Plays On**

Mist glowed gold in the morning sun, wrapping gnarled _bonsai_ trees in wealth. Birds of paradise fluttered from the forested valley up steep cliffs to an ancient dojo. The two most brilliant criminal masterminds in the world sat across from each other on a balcony. The beauty of the scene below was lost on them for now; all that mattered was the board between them, and the game it represented.

"You'll never win, you know."

Ma Sun looked up at his opponent. "Nor shall you, Professor." He considered the board.

Rene Brefford, former professor of political science and esoteric mycology, waited patiently. "Our agents are numerous, our reach, long. Our power waxes with each passing day. Your time is over. The sun shall set upon your ancient empire, and when the creep of shadows finally covers your land, you shall be lost."

Sun nodded. "Many have made such claims over the years. Khan. Alexander. Mao. Their bones have crumbled, while ours stand tall. They mistook wisdom for weakness, age for incompetence, forgetting the first and most important rule of any game."

"Which is?"

He smiled. "'Respect your elders,' of course. For one who plays until they are old and grey must know a thing or two about winning."

"Rather hypocritical, coming from you," replied Brefford.

"Ah, but it is a lesson I hold dear, Professor. Take my esteemed colleague, Jintaou Hu. When he learned of his son's tragic fall in foreign lands, he vowed to fulfil his promise before the Elder: that he staked his life upon his son's success. I tried to dissuade him from his old ways, but he insisted, and took his life not three hours ago."

Brefford nodded. "Yes, I heard. Death by poison-tipped ballista, I believe?"

"And your subordinate, the man named Jarvis? He had defied you, shunned your advice, even tried to blackmail you with your own true name, and now he too is gone. He underestimated his opponent, and paid the price."

He conceded the point, and placed his pieces. "'Checkmate.'"

Sun blinked. "Oh, like blazes it is, Brefford! There's no 'Q' in 'Checkmate' and there's certainly no 'ü'!"

"Ah, but there _is_ when you spell it in ancient Cyrillic as expressed using Romanized Japanese _kanji_." Sun conceded the point. (1) "We could return to the issue of 'Gorilla' spelled with three x's if you wish? Then I shall claim my triple-word-score box."

"We seem to have run out of board without a clear winner," said Sun.

"We could add another three?"

"No, I think that's enough for one day."

"Indeed; I have a nail appointment in a hour in Cairo." (2)

"But it was a good game," said Sun. "Though we did not take Altena's pawn as we had hoped, and our losses were great, we did remove some other troublesome pieces. Your Jarvis can no longer threaten your life —"

"He was more of an irritant, actually. Terrible fashion sense," he added, _sotto voce_.

"— and Hu can no longer oppose my rise in the Council."

"Yes, it all went exactly according to plan, didn't it?"

"Indeed."

There was a silence filled by the scrabble of wooden tiles.

"So," said Brefford, "you completely lucked out too, eh?"

"Yep."

"Tea and biscuits?" asked Mrs. Rufflepants, from the kitchen. (3)

"Yes, please!" they replied.

(Footnotes)

1. If you attempt to confirm this, you have too much time on your hands.

2. Less pedicure, more bamboo-shoots-into-the-cuticles.

3. I just don't know anymore…


	16. Consolation Prize

**Chapter 15: Consolation Prize**

The wooden door creaked open. Slippers shuffled zombie-like into a room that was vast, Spartan, and ridiculously pink. A combination blood/IV drip squeaked after them.

Chloe plopped onto her bed, pulled the nightstand close and slammed a glass on it. She immediately regretted it. "Ow! Hand! Tendons! Stitches! Ow!"

She tried to massage it, then remembered her other arm was in a sling and gave up. She pulled the IV/blood drip a bit closer and sat up. "Ow. Back. Ow." She stuffed Mrs. Racoonypuss back there and found, to her delight, that she provided excellent lumbar support.

She poured herself a glass of milk. "Well, no reason it should go to waste!" Altena had said, when she came out of her coma. Chloe really felt like screaming just then, but the doctors advised against it (something about fractures, pierced diaphragms and staples). At least they let her wear her favourite pyjamas, she reflected, although how Alphonse always knew to bring them she'd never know.

She yawned, ignoring the cracking noises her ribs made. Such a long, long, long day, and so much more to do: her report to Altena, the halls to sweep, the new coin to add to her collection. (1) Oh, and Marennes wanted to play CandyLand again. Woman was mad for that game, she thought.

"Eh, do it tomorrow," said the voice in her head. "Now, red mouth needs cookie, badly!"

"For once we agree," she replied. "And I really need to stop doing that," she sighed.

"Doing what?"

Chloe shut her up with a cookie. She chewed, thoughtfully. "Huh," she thought. "These are pretty good, actually."

"Good cookies make everything better!" cheered a ninja under the bed.

Chloe twitched.

"Oops," said the ninja.

(Footnotes)

1. Why did you _think_ she picked it up, then?

9999. _Author's note: this story was made in response to the fellow who asked for "more Chloe" in _Shopping Mission _and Swordskill's complaint that there were no good action fics for Noir. The author apologizes to Chloe, and asks that she stop stabbing him now, please?_


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